this is very much a writing and reblog acc so you'll also see me shitpost about my kpop ults too but anywayyy, feel at home, grab some snacks, or relax. this is a judgement-free zone and a safe place for all! feel free to send me an ask too :)
I write sfw fics for the most part, with suggestive at most. I may play around with some nsfw but not so much because I don't find myself good enough to write it, yet. (even if i read a lot of m-rated fics lol)
after whining to chan about how bad you miss sex post-breakup, your sweet boy makes sure his noona never misses it again
WARNINGS: +18 mdni, penetrative sex, pussy eating, fingering, crying (from pleasure), mention of body fluids (cum/saliva), wrist pinning, clit stimulation, safe sex, overstimulation i guess, and pillow talk.
a/n: i love this pretty man so fucking much :( and im back, slowly but I'm back! love yall, missed you so fucking much <3 hope yall have a nice week!! not revised, 67 idk
it starts in the most ordinary way, which is probably why it stays with you longer than it should. nothing about that night was meant to change anything. it was just you and chan, like always, sitting too close on your couch, a couple of empty beer bottles on the table, music playing low enough that it felt more like a background thought than actual sound. he had come over after work, complaining about something small, you barely remembering what, and you had laughed it off, the way you always did with him, easy and expected.
chan had always been that for you. easy.
you were older, more resolved, more used to the weight of things. he was lighter, softer around the edges, still figuring himself out in ways you had already gone through years ago. and eventually, somehow, he had become your person. if anything, it showed in the way he listened more carefully than most people your age, in the way he paid attention to details others brushed off, in the way he stayed when conversations got too heavy for everyone else.
so that night, when the conversation drifted the way it did, it didn’t feel strange at first.
you were already a little tipsy, the warmth of the alcohol sitting comfortably in your chest, loosening your thoughts just enough that you stopped filtering them so carefully. he was sitting beside you, legs stretched out, head tilted back against the couch, listening in that careful way he always did, like everything you said mattered more than it probably should.
“you know what’s the worst part?” you said, staring at your bottle, turning it slowly between your fingers.
“hm?” he hummed, not even looking at you, but you knew he was listening.
“breaking up,” you continued, your voice softer now, more honest than you usually allowed yourself to be. “everyone talks about missing the person, or the routine, or whatever… but no one talks about missing the sex.”
that made him glance at you.
you didn’t look back. you just kept talking, because once you started, it felt easier to let it out than to stop.
when you finally turned your head, he was already watching you, brows slightly drawn together like he was thinking too hard about something.
“what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes a little.
he hesitated.
and that was new.
chan didn’t usually hesitate with you.
he looked down at his hands for a second, then back up “i mean…” he started, voice uncertain. “i could help you with that.”
and for a second, you thought you had heard him wrong.
you blinked. “what?”
he let out a small breath, like he was already regretting saying it, but he didn’t take it back. instead, he looked at you properly this time “i’m just saying,” he continued, slower now, choosing his words more cautiously. “you don’t have to… miss it. if you don’t want to.”
you stared at him, trying to process what he had just said, but your mind kept getting stuck on the same thing. he wasn’t joking. there was no teasing tone, no playful smile, no easy way to brush it off and laugh like you usually would.
he meant it, and suddenly, you were very aware of how close he was, how his knee was almost touching yours, how his arm rested along the back of the couch, just behind you, how his eyes hadn’t left your face since he said it.
“chan…”
he swallowed, and you noticed it “i know it sounds weird,” he said quickly, a small, nervous laugh slipping out. “i just— i thought… you know. we trust each other. and it wouldn’t have to be a big deal or anything.”
you let out a slow breath, your heart beating a little faster than it should, because the thing is, he wasn’t wrong. you did trust him, more than most people.
“you’re serious…”
“yeah,” he answered, just as quietly.
you looked at him again, and it hit you in a way it hadn’t before. chan had always been attractive, in that effortless, boyish way you had never let yourself think too much about. it had never mattered, because he was yours in a different way, untouchable in that sense. and it unsettled you, not because it felt wrong, but because it didn’t feel as impossible as it should.
“and then what? we just… go back to normal?”
he hesitated again, but not for long “if that’s what you want,” he said. “yeah.”
you studied him for a moment, searching for something in his expression; doubt, hesitation, anything that would make this easier to dismiss. but all you found was sincerity, because now the choice was yours. you leaned back against the couch, your head resting where his arm was stretched out behind you, and neither of you moved away.
“you’re insane,” you murmured, but there was no bite to it.
he huffed out a quiet laugh. “i’ve been told.”
you closed your eyes for a second, trying to gather your thoughts, but they refused to settle into anything clear. then uou opened your eyes again, turning your head slightly until you were looking at him.
“you really thought this through?” you asked.
he gave a small shrug, “more than i should have, probably.”
and just like that the air between you two shifts thick and heavy like the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for you to say yes or no. but you dont say shit, you just look at him this easy boy who’s always been your safe place, and something in your chest cracks open. because it feels too real too ordinary to be this charged.
the way his eyes drop to your mouth, then lower, like he’s been thinking about this longer than he let on. you swallow hard heart hammering stupid in your ribs and mutter “okay chan fuck it show me what you got” your voice casual but your thighs press together a little, because you’re already wet just from the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only thing that matters right now.
he doesn’t waste time, doesn’t make it weird or movie perfect, he just leans in slow his hand sliding up your thigh under the hem of your loose shorts. the calluses on his fingers rough in the best way scraping lightly over your skin, making you shiver and think; shit this is chan, your chan, the one who brings you coffee without asking.
and now his breath is hot against your inner thigh as he tugs your shorts and panties down in one go, leaving you bare on the couch cushions the cool air hits your pussy, and you feel yourself clench around nothing, already dripping a little because your body’s been waiting for this even if your brain’s still catching up.
he settles between your legs on his knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pushing your thighs wider with those big hands, his thumbs digging in just enough to keep you open and exposed, and you watch him watch you. his eyes dark, but still soft around the edges, like he’s checking if you’re okay and that does something stupid to your inside.
he dips his head and drags his tongue flat and slow up your slit, collecting every bit of your slick in one long lazy lick, the wet heat of it makes your hips twitch, and a low “oh shit” slips out of you, because fuck it’s better than you imagined.
the way his tongue feels smooth and warm pressing against your folds, parting them like he’s savoring the taste of you. he moans right into your pussy, the vibration buzzing straight to your clit, making your breath catch.
he does it again, slower this time, circling the tip of his tongue around your entranc, teasing the sensitive skin there before sucking gently at your folds. the soft wet pull of his mouth creating this obscene little suction sound, that fills the room louder than the music still playing low in the background.
and you can hear how wet you are already, the slick sounds of his tongue lapping at your juices like he’s drinking you down, not rushing, his lips seals around your clit and he sucks harder, the pressure building perfect, and filthy the way your clit throbs under the suction like it’s being pulled into the wet heat of his mouth, makes you feel that familiar burn starting low and sharp. the good kind that makes your toes curl against the couch.
he flicks his tongue fast, then slow, alternating between tight little circles, and broad flat strokes that drag over your swollen nub. leaving you gasping as your hand flies down to fist in his hair tugging hard, because chan knows exactly how to work you, like he’s studied every little reaction you might give, and the strangled moan that rips from your throat is nothing like the ones you’ve made alone.
your mind’s spinning, because this is supposed to be just helping out, but it feels too fucking good. the constant schlick schlick of his mouth slurping up your arousal that’s leaking down your thighs, makes you drip onto the couch, but you don’t even care because he’s humming against you like he loves the taste, and it vibrates through your whole pussy making your walls flutter around nothing.
in a blink, his fingers are there. two of them thick and calloused sliding through your folds easily, he pushes one in first slow and deep curling it just right to rub against that spot inside you, that makes your vision blur. the sound it makes is so fucking wet, a loud squelch as he pumps it in and out lazy at first, letting your juices coat his hand completely before adding the second finger.
he's stretching you open, and the burn is perfect, that slight sting mixing with the pleasure as he scissors them apart then curls, both hooking them deep and dragging back out over and over. the rhythm matching, the way his tongue’s still sucking your clit like he’s trying to pull an orgasm right out of you, his fingers thrusting faster, the wet squelching sounds getting louder and messier every time he buries them to the knuckle.
you’re grinding down on his face without thinking, hips rolling chasing that pressure, because it feels too real, too good, the way your pussy clenches around his fingers, dripping down his wrist, and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull back, even when you tug his hair harder.
“chan fuck right there don’t stop” your voice all broken and desperate.
he gives the kind of head that ruins you for anyone else, the kind that’s messy and real and so fucking intimate you feel it in your chest too, not just between your legs.
he pulls back just enough to breathe, hot against your soaked pussy, his chin shiny with your juices and he looks up at you eyes half-lidded, you can see the bit of tiredness in his breath, but he looks like he is far from stopping now.
“you taste so fucking good…” he murmurs, before diving back in tongue fucking into you now alongside his fingers, the combination making your back arch off the couch a choked moan tearing out of you as the wet sounds turn even filthier the constant slick slide of his tongue and fingers working you open.
he pushes you closer and closer and you’re lost in the way your body’s reacting so honest, the burn in your clit from his relentless suction, the deep ache building low in your belly from his fingers curling just right, every thrust dragging more of your wetness out with those loud obscene squelches that make your face heat up, but ends up turning you on even more.
why?
because it’s him doing this to you, your chan, making you fall apart on your own couch like it’s nothing. and you know deep down, this isn’t going back to normal, not after the way he’s devouring you like he’s been starving for it.
your body locks up tight without warning. the orgasm crashes through you like a goddamn wave you didn’t see coming. your back arches clean off the couch, thighs clamping around chan’s head as that deep burn in your clit explodes into white-hot sparks.
his tongue still suctioned hard around your swollen nub, pulling every last drop of it out of you, and you cum messy and loud, a broken “oh fuck, chan—” ripping from your throat while your pussy clenches and flutters hard around his fingers, gushing warm slick all over his chin and mouth.
he moans right into your cunt, loud and deep, like he’s the one falling apart too. his voice vibrating through your pulsing walls, making the aftershocks hit harder. you feel every lick, every swallow as he eats you through it, greedy and filthy, not pulling away even when your hips jerk and twitch, because he’s drinking you down like he can’t get enough.
the way your mind blanks out completely, just pure heat and mess, and the thought that this is your easy safe chan, now tongue-deep in your pussy moaning like he’s starving for your cum. that alone makes you cum a little harder, he keeps licking you soft and slow through the comedown, his moans turning into these satisfied little hums while your chest heaves and your thighs tremble around his ears.
the second he feels your body start to relax, the tension easing out of your muscles, he’s already moving. no time for you to catch your breath or float down gentle.
he sits up quick, his chin shiny with you, his eyes dark and blown wide, and you watch hazy as he reaches down, unbuckling his belt with one hand, the other still stroking your soaked folds like he can’t stop touching you. the metal clink sounds so ordinary against the wet mess between your legs.
he leans sideways, grabbing his backpack off the floor beside the couch, rummaging fast until he pulls out a condom, tearing the wrapper open with his teeth while his free hand shoves his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip. and you’re still blinking through the fog of your orgasm when he rolls it on quick and messy, not even giving you a second to process before he’s back between your thighs, lining himself up.
your eyes fly open wide the moment you feel the blunt head of his cock push against your dripping entrance, and you arch hard, a needy mewl slipping out as he's right there, pushing in, stretching you open while your pussy’s still fluttering and sensitive from cumming.
the continuity of it hits you so fucking hard, that full heavy slide right after your orgasm making your walls clamp down around him, greedy and wet. you look up at him then, and his perfect abs are clenching tight with every slow thrust, his shirt rucked up just enough to show the way they flex and roll under his skin. his eyes rolling back a little as he bites down hard on the inside of his mouth, trying to keep it together, and you feel it all, the burn, the stretch, the way he fills you so good it makes your toes curl again.
you mewl at him all sly and breathy, “let me feel you, channie.”
he doesn’t even hesitate. he grabs your hand quick, sliding it up under his shirt right over those warm clenching abs, letting your palm drag across the hard ridges of muscle while he leans down over you, his chest pressing close.
his mouth is on yours, swallowing the loud moan that rips out of you the second he bottoms out deep. the kiss is messy and desperate, muffling how fucking loud you get because the stretchand the way his cock throbs inside your still-spasming pussy is too much, balls deep buried inside you, while he's kissing you stupid while your nails dig into his abs and your hips roll up to meet him like you never want this ordinary night to end.
every second surprises you, like he’s reading your body better than you ever could. right when you think you’ve caught your breath from that first deep thrust, chan grabs both your wrists in one big hand and locks them above your head against the couch cushion, pinning you down easy and firm. his other palm slides flat over your lower belly, pressing hard right where his cock is buried inside you, and fuck the pressure skyrockets.
you feel him thicker, deeper, the head of his dick dragging against that spot with every tiny movement, like he’s molding your insides around him on purpose. your eyes squeeze shut and a broken sob slips out, tears already pricking hot at the corners because it’s too much and not enough all at once.
“chan— oh my god,” you choke, voice cracking into nothing but wet mewls.
you can feel it in the way his hips snap harder, grinding that perfect pressure against your belly from the outside while he rails you from the inside, like he wants to erase every lonely night you spent missing this exact feeling. every thrust punches the air out of you, wet slaps echoing loud between your bodies, your slick coating his ballsack and dripping down your ass with every pull back. your pussy flutters and squeezes around him so tight it almost hurts.
he leans down close, lips brushing your ear, and gives you that pretty white smile you’ve seen a thousand times, only now it’s filthy and soft at the same time. “i know, baby,” he murmurs in the prettiest voice, all low and sweet and a little breathless, like he’s savoring the way you fall apart for him. “i know it’s good. gonna make sure you never miss this shit again.”
before you can even try to answer, he pulls out sudden and smooth, flips you over like you weigh nothing, and yanks your hips up so you’re on all fours. your knees sink into the couch, ass up, back arched, and he’s sliding back in before you can whine at the loss.
the new angle hits even deeper, his cock dragging along your walls with every brutal thrust, your pussy taking him so loud it fills the whole room.
you can only mewl, over and over, face buried in the cushion, tears slipping free now “s’good— chan, s’good, please— s’good—”
he laughs soft and fond behind you, that same lovely voice wrapping around the words as he rails you harder, hips snapping in strong rolls “yeah? that’s my girl. just take it, baby. let me fuck all that missing right out of you.” his abs clench tight every time he bottoms out, balls slapping wet against your clit, and you’re crying into the fabric, body shaking, this night just turning into the kind of sex that rewires your brain, and chan’s the one doing it with that stupidly sweet smile and those relentless hips.
you don’t even remember what you were complaining about anymore. all you know is his cock, his hands, his voice telling you he knows, and the way your pussy keeps gushing around him like it never wants him to stop.
it tightens in your belly again without any warning, that familiar coil pulling so fast and so fucking tight you’re actually impressed by how quick another orgasm is already building up, like your body’s been starving for this exact feeling and chan’s the only one who knows how to unlock it.
you don’t even moan anymore. your mouth just drops open in a wide, silent ‘o’, eyes squeezed shut as hot tears slip down your cheeks and you sob without sound, the pleasure so overwhelming it steals every noise right out of your throat. your whole body shakes on all fours, knees sinking deeper into the couch while chan keeps railing you from behind.
his hand sneaks under you then, sliding between your trembling thighs, and he sinks his fat cock completely inside you in one hard thrust, bottoming out so deep the pressure in your belly spikes even higher. his fingers find your swollen clit and start flicking it fast, tight little circles that make your vision spark white. “that’s it, baby, cum on my cock, let me feel you.”
you can’t even answer, just sob silently into the cushion as the orgasm rips through you hard and sudden, your pussy clamping down around him like a vice, squeezing and fluttering so tight it drags him right over the edge with you. he groans deep in his chest, hips stuttering as he cums hard inside the condom, thick pulses you can still feel through the latex while your walls milk him for everything he’s got.
your arms give out completely after that. you can’t even keep yourself on all fours anymore, you just collapse belly-down onto the couch, face buried in the cushion, ass still slightly up because he’s still buried inside you, breathing hard against your back.
chan stays there for a second, chest pressed to your spine, then he lets out a soft little scoff under his breath, quiet enough that he thinks you won’t hear it, like he’s trying so hard not to make you feel embarrassed about how fast and how hard you just fell apart for him.
but you do hear it, and it makes something warm bloom in your chest because it’s so fucking him. he pulls out slow and careful, already reaching for something to clean you up like this was never supposed to be a big deal, even though both of you know it just changed everything in the best goddamn way.
[...]
after the quick bath you two took, with chan’s arm wrapped tight around your waist the whole time because your legs were still wobbling like a damn newborn deer, you both ended up freshly showered and completely naked under the fat, hot, white duvet. the room smelled like your coconut soap mixed with his skin, and the only light came from the stupid little lamp on the side table that you always forget to turn off.
you were curled into his chest, one leg thrown lazily over his thigh, his arm heavy and warm around your back, like he couldn’t stop touching you even now.
you felt boneless and floaty while kssing him, pussy still tingling from everything he did, a lazy throb between your legs that made you shift a little closer. the kiss slows down naturally, like neither of you is in a rush anymore. his mouth moves against yours with a patience that makes your chest ache. you can still taste him, still feel the warmth of him. by the time you both pull back, it’s only enough to breathe, your foreheads brushing, noses barely touching, lips still ghosting each other like neither of you wants to let go fully.
“hey,”
you tilt your head slightly, just enough to look up at him. “hm?”
his fingers pause for a second, then resume, slower this time. “i need you to know something.”
you don’t say anything, but you feel your chest tighten a little, your attention sharpening.
“this… tonight,” he continues, searching for the right words, “it wasn’t just me trying to help you feel better… or distract you or anything like that.”
you study his face.
“i care about you,” he says, more quietly. “a lot more than i probably should.”
you let out a small breath, your cheek still pressed against him, but your eyes don’t leave his.
he gives you that small smile, the one you’ve seen a hundred times, his hand comes up to brush a damp strand of hair away from your face, his thumb lingering just slightly against your cheek.
“i’m not… using you,” he adds, almost like he needs to make it clear. “that’s not what this is for me. you’re not just… this.” he gestures faintly between you, then lets his hand settle back against you.
you swallow, your throat tight in a way you weren’t expecting.
“you’re the person i go to,” he continues, “when my day’s bad. when something good happens. when i don’t feel like being around anyone else. you’ve been that for me for a while.”
you shift slightly, your fingers curling lightly against his side, grounding yourself.
“i like you,” he says, more simply this time. “not just like this. just… you.”
there’s a pause, but it’s not empty. you lift your head a little more, your faces closer now, your breath mixing with his. your nose brushes his, and for a second neither of you moves. “i just didn’t want to go back to pretending,” he adds, almost under his breath.
your chest tightens again, but this time it’s warmer.
“and what are you asking for?” you ask.
he looks at you properly now, his expression open in a way that makes it impossible to look away.
“more than just tonight,” he says. “if you want that too.”
your gaze drops for a second, your thoughts catching up to you, then you look back at him.
“you’re serious,” you say.
“i am.”
you let out a slow breath, your hand shifting slightly against him. “and if i say no?” you ask, not because you mean it, but because you need to hear it.
his expression softens even more. “then nothing changes unless you want it to.”
that answer sits with you. you lean in without overthinking it, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. it’s slower this time. when you pull back, you stay close, your forehead resting against his. “you make this very hard to ignore,” you murmur.
he smiles faintly, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheek again. “that’s kind of the problem, yeah.”
summary: After weeks apart, Dino finally comes home to the person he missed most. A quiet night together quickly turns playful as the two try to make up for lost time.
drabble chapter!!
themes: fluff romance and playful intimacy
pairings: svt’s dino x girlfriend!reader
notes: tried a different writing from the byeol universe. HEHE i can’t seem to get rid Dino off my mind. I hope you enjoy this:))
The front door had barely closed behind him before you were in his arms.
Weeks apart had made both of you desperate in the softest way possible. Dino had laughed the moment you nearly collided into his chest, dropping his bag carelessly to the floor before catching you by the waist and lifting you like it was nothing. The next thing you knew, you were seated on his lap on the couch, legs wrapped around his waist, fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck.
“I missed you,” you whispered against his lips.
He answered by kissing you harder.
It was warm and familiar, the kind of kiss that made time blur. His hand cradled the back of your neck, thumb brushing your skin, while the other rested securely on your waist as if he still needed to reassure himself that you were really there.
You smiled into the kiss, breathless when he kept chasing your lips every time you tried to pull away. You felt his hold tighten, his strength grounding you against him.
Then his phone rang, breaking the quiet serene moment between the two lovers.
But neither of you moved from each other, just completely lost within the moments together.
Then, his phone rang again.
Dino only tilted his head and kissed you deeper, making you laugh against his mouth as you gently pushed at his chest.
“You have to answer that.” You murmured against his lips
His brows pinched together immediately. “They can wait a few more minutes.” His voice came out low and whiny, lips already brushing yours again. “Or an hour.”
You giggled, pressing your palm flat against his chest to hold him back. “Chan.”
He groaned dramatically, dropping his forehead to your shoulder with the sound of someone deeply wronged by life itself. It made you laugh harder.
Still keeping one arm around your waist, he reached behind him for the vibrating phone and glanced at the screen.
His expression turned even more offended.
He lifted the phone so you could see.
Hoshi Hyung Calling
You bit back a grin.
“Of course,” Dino muttered before answering. He raised a brow before sending a soft teasing smirk at you. “Oh, hyung.”
You stayed curled comfortably in his lap, arms looped around his shoulders while he spoke. His voice was polite enough, but every few seconds he shot you looks of pure suffering that nearly made you laugh out loud.
As he listened, his eyes drifted over you absentmindedly.
Your sleeve seemed to had slipped down one shoulder, revealing the straps of your velvet colored bra
Without breaking conversation, Dino reached over and gently tugged the fabric back into place, smoothing the neckline with absent care. A second later, he brushed your hair away from your face too, fingers lingering at your cheek before returning to hold the phone.
The gesture was so natural, so practiced, that your chest tightened.
Even while distracted, he was always taking care of you.
You played with the curls at the back of his hair, letting your fingers trail down to the nape of his neck. He shivered slightly but kept talking, one hand squeezing your waist in silent retaliation.
Finally, he sighed. “Yes, hyung. Okay. Bye.”
He then threw his phone on the end of the couch that was next to him.
You smiled softly. “What was that about?”
Dino slumped back against the cushions. “Hoshi hyung being dramatic over something that could have been a text.”
You laughed, brushing his fringe back.
He looked at you for a moment, eyes softening completely now that the interruption was gone. Then he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and the corner of his mouth lifted into a teasing smirk.
“Now,” he murmured, pulling you closer by the waist, “where were we, baby?”
You barely had time to giggle before he buried his face against your neck, pressing warm kisses there until you squealed and clung to him.
“Chan—” you breathlessly giggled.
He only grinned against your skin before finding your lips again, kissing you slow this time, like he had all night to make up for lost time.
Synopsis: after a failed night out your best friend, Jihoon, comes to rescue you from the cold pavement outside of the club. What he doesn’t know is that you’re suddenly down bad for him and don’t know how to cope with these new feelings.
Warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content | oral (f. Receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, dom! Jihoon
Authors note: it’s about time I posted a fic for my ult, I have no clue why it’s taken this long. Domestic Jihoon is so hot to me and I hope you all like the way I’ve written him! Btw I know he doesn’t drive but in this he does okay:))
“Y/n?”
You look up from where you were perched on the side of the road, the entrance of the club blasting with loud music behind you.
You had left to get some air. Your ‘friends’ had already ditched you for random guys, and at this point, all you wanted to do was go home.
So naturally, you called Jihoon.
You didn’t expect him to get here so quickly, but when something is urgent, Jihoon doesn’t hesitate.
“Hey,” you stand from the cold concrete, being pulled into the muscular arms of the man before you. “Thank you for coming to get me,” you exhale into his chest.
“You know I’ll always come and get you.”
Jihoon releases you from his embrace, holding you by the shoulders to take in your appearance.
“Have you been drinking?” He asks, trying to get an idea of how intently he would be looking after you tonight.
He was your childhood best friend, always there for you no matter the circumstance.
“I had like two drinks. I thought we would all be leaving early but they met some guys and wanted to stay,” you try not to sound pathetic, but you knew he could see straight through you.
Your recent mission of finding female friends your age wasn’t going exactly to plan. Jihoon was 5 years older than you, which doesn’t seem like much, but when all he and his members do is piss about like prepubescent teens, you thought it might be time to make some girl friends.
“You need to find some that actually care about you and don’t just use you to make their friend group bigger,” he sighs, pulling you back towards him.
The warmth of his embrace made you feel safe on a night surrounded by unfamiliarity. He was the best part of you, and it suddenly made you sad to realise you thought you needed more.
“Can we go home?”
“Yeah, come on babygirl.” Jihoon leads you to his car, opening the passenger door for you and then closing it gently when he could see that you were seated comfortably.
As he got into the driver's seat and closed the door, the air shifted into a calm silence. The outside noise from the club was drowned out by Jihoon’s fingers tapping on the steering wheel and the light hum coming from his lips.
“You want to come to mine? I can make you some food,” he calmly suggests, patting your leg and then resting his hand there.
This type of behaviour was normal between the two of you. His over caring attitude bordered on sexual tension to anyone outside of you and him. The other members were skeptical of your relationship at first, but soon grew to realise that it’s just how you were with each other.
However…tonight? His light touch on your thigh felt heavy. The warmth from his fingers was burning a hole in your skin, and you were scared to even question the warm feeling between your legs.
“Yes please,” you whisper, eyes fixated on his hand.
You were silently praying that he didn’t pick up on your shy demeanor, but you couldn’t help the change in attitude.
Jihoon’s hand moved back and forth from the gear stick to your thigh throughout the drive, and somewhere along the way, your once chatty tone had reduced to silence and a red face.
When you finally reached his place, he parked his car, getting out to make his way to your side.
“Do you want ramen? Or should I order a pizza?” Jihoon asks, resting an arm loosely around your shoulder while you walk to the door.
“Whatever takes the least amount of effort,” you say.
Usually you wouldn’t care how much effort he put in; you would just ask for what you wanted knowing he would do it no questions asked.
But you had no clue what this foreign feeling was. It was taking over your entire body, and the only thing you could think to do was take a cold shower and ignore your best friend for the rest of the night.
“I know you want ramen; you always do after a night out,” he says, opening the door and hanging back so you could enter first. “I’ll make two portions and whatever you don’t eat, I’ll finish.”
Over the years, Jihoon had gotten used to your ‘eyes bigger than your belly’ ways. He would always wait for you to eat as much as you wanted and then finish your leftovers. Tonight, however, it was turning you on in ways you couldn’t even begin to understand.
You turned to wander off into Jihoon’s bedroom where he kept a drawer full of your clothes. Getting changed out of your clubbing clothes and into something more comfortable seemed like it might help you feel more familiar in your setting so the turned on feeling would maybe turn off.
“Do I not have any more clean sweats in here?” You call out to Jihoon after finding the drawer empty other than a few t-shirts and cozy socks.
Jihoon pokes his head around the door frame, his jacket had been taken off, leaving him in a tight t-shirt that hugged his big arms perfectly. No stop it y/n, please stop it.
“Uhh i think there’s two pairs still in the wash from when Soonyoung spilled his drink on you last weekend,” he said before looking toward his closet, “just wear some of mine.”
fuck.
You wear his clothes all the time, this should be normal right?
As soon as you open the closet door, you’re hit in the face by his smell. A smell so familiar and comforting to you that it should remind you this is your best friend you're thirsting over and you need to stop. But all you can think about is being completely suffocated by that smell, burying your face in his neck so you could get more of it.
Get a grip y/n.
You had changed and already settled in on his couch when he approached you holding a bowl of ramen. His sweats sat low on his hips, and suddenly, you weren’t just hungry for ramen.
After placing the bowl on the table in front of you, he sat down; the warmth from his body was being projected over you as his leg pressed up against yours.
You scoot up the couch a bit, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
He did. Of course he did.
“Do I stink or something?” He laughs, lifting his T-shirt to his nose. The movement exposed his lower stomach, giving you a full view, really not helping whatever it was that had taken over you tonight.
“No um—I just,” you look down at your hands, picking at your nail polish to try and distract yourself from him. “I probably smell bad, you know, because of the club.”
Without any hesitation, he leans towards you, burying his face into your neck and taking a deep breath in. Fuckkkkk.<<<<<
“You smell fine, y/n,” he says, pulling back only slightly, close enough that his nose is still inches from yours.
You feel like you’re in a trance, completely paralysed by his gaze, and you can’t help but stare back.
“Jihoon—please don’t,” you whimper, eyes locked on his.
His confused expression from before grows stronger.
“What’s going on, y/n? You look like you’re in love with me or something,” he lets out a quiet laugh, patting your thigh and returning to his position on the couch.
Just to tease you further, he moves to close the gap you had just created, causing you to sit thigh to thigh.
As he reaches for the tv remote, your eyes trace the veins on his arms. His strong hands gripping the remote, making you wish they were gripping your throat instead. You needed him so bad, but there was no way you could tell him.
No way that wouldn’t ruin your friendship.
“Hello?? What are we watching?” Jihoon was waving a hand in front of your face, snapping you back to reality, “Were you staring at my arms?”
“No um—I just,” you fail to form a coherent sentence. Your only option at this point was to walk home and pray that you could sleep this feeling off.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, looking concerned now.
You gulp, not being able to hold eye contact, “I just have an issue, it’s nothing.” Jihoon discards the remote, the sound of the tv muffled under the weight of your need for him, although your unfocused eyes stay fixed to the blurry shapes on the screen anyway.
“What do you need? You know I’ll do anything for you, baby girl.”
You wince at his words. The nickname he’s used for you hundreds of times throughout your life was now the cause of a river bigger than the Thames, “No, you can’t help me with this.”
A look of confusion floods his face when you dare to look at him. His kind eyes now held a glint of seduction that only you could see. “Why not?”
You hesitate, unsure on how to continue this conversation without leaping on him. Without sacrificing everything.
“Because you would find it weird,” you blurt out.
Jihoon sighs and rubs his face, frustration painted across his skin, eyebrows furrowed like he was about to give up on asking. But he doesn’t. He never has.
“Maybe tell me what it is before you predict my answer,” he puts his hand on your thigh again and you can’t do anything but stare down at it, your mouth hung open.
“I can’t tell you, I’m too embarrassed.”
“When have you ever been embarrassed in front of me?” His tone was becoming irritable, however the look on his face had softened, almost like his brain was aggravated with you but his commitment was fighting it.
“Nothing has ever been as embarrassing as this,” you feel your face heating up to the point you’re worried it may explode, eyes still fixed on his hand that rests against your aching skin.
“Y/n, I’m not going to force you to tell me but you look so flustered right now and I don’t want to see you feeli—“
“Ugh fuck okay! I’m just really turned on right now! That’s it!” Your hands immediately fly to your face, covering the embarrassment that was seeping out of every orifice.
“You’re…turned on?” He questions, reaching to pull your hands away.
You let him.
“Yes,” you stutter “for you—your hand—in the car,” you had given up, there was no going back. “I’m literally soaked through my thong because of you and I don’t even that think all of the cold water in the world would stop how turned on I am right now so I need to go home or I don’t know, run into oncoming traffic because the way you’re looking at me is making me desperate to kiss you and that’s so weird,” you sigh, shocked at your sudden outburst. Your plan to not make things weird has now definitely failed because of your inability to stop rambling.
He looked slightly taken aback, but then his expression changed to something you couldn’t quite read.
“Would it be weird?” He asks, now being the one failing to hold eye contact.
“I don’t know, would it?”
His gaze finds you again and you watch as his eyes flick down to your lips and then back up, a look of yearning on his face.
He shifts to look at you, his hand leaving your thigh and making its way up to gently caress your cheek, like he was touching a priceless item.
“I don’t think it would be,” he whispers.
You could feel the heat radiating off of him, setting alight to every nerve ending in your body. Fuck.
“You’re really close to me right now,” You breathe.
“Would you like me to be closer?”
“Please,” you almost moan.
Jihoon’s finger finds your chin, lingering there for a second before lifting it lightly. His lips graze yours softly, as his eyes flicker shut. You follow suit when you feel him kiss you.
“Okay?” He asks, pulling back a few inches.
Words are unable to form in your mouth, so your only solution was to pull his T-shirt forward, reconnecting your lips in a kiss that holds more urgency than the last.
“Bedroom,” Jihoon mumbles against your mouth, hands gripping your hips tightly as he lifts you from the sofa you were pressed against.
He carries you to his bedroom, mouth not leaving yours for even a second while your grip tightens around his neck.
The feeling of his hands on your ass and his hardening dick on your heat gives you the friction that you’ve been aching for, but not nearly enough.
Placing you down onto his bed, he steps back to admire you. His eyes held a glint of something you were unable to read. You wanted to know everything he was thinking, you wanted to know what he felt like, his skin against yours, what he tasted like. You wanted it all.
“I’ve wanted this for so long, thought about so many different ways I could make you feel good,” he pushes the long dark hair out of his eyes, “and now I’m here, I don’t know where to begin.”
“You’ve wanted this?” You ask, your breath getting caught in your throat. You and Jihoon were never something you had thought about like this, but now, your entire being is suffocated by the need for every inch of him.
“Y/n, you’re so oblivious, it's adorable,” he moves closer, standing between your spread legs. “I’ve wanted you for years.”
“Why didn't you say anything?” You ask, trying not to make direct eye contact with the growing bulge in his pants.
“For the same reason you were scared to say anything earlier, but now looking at that,” He gestures towards the large wet spot on his sweats you were wearing that you no longer needed to hide from him, “I’m so glad you asked me to pick you up tonight.”
He moves forward, resting his knee on the bed in between your legs, to lean over and kiss you. For the first time in your life, kissing someone felt good. Before, it had always been a thing you thought you had to do, not something you enjoyed. But with Jihoon? You could live the rest of your life with his mouth attached to yours.
You reach down, feeling the soft fabric on the hem of his t-shirt. Pulling it up over his head, you finally got a full view of his bare chest. You had seen him shirtless before, but never like this.
“Tell me what you need, baby girl. I’m yours, whatever you want,” he mumbles, lips going back to meet yours.
“Please, I need you to fuck me” you whisper against his mouth.
“Come here” Jihoon holds your hips as he guides you to straddle him. His lips travel down, sucking and nibbling on your neck, leaving his mark as gently as he could.
He reaches for your t-shirt, tugging at it as if asking for permission before lifting it over your head.
“Fuck, i feel like I’ve waited my whole life to finally be the one to give these the attention they need,” he groans, attaching his mouth onto the skin of your breast above your bra, “can i take it off baby girl?”
“Jihoon if you don’t take it off in the next five seconds I actually might die.”
He lets out a quiet laugh against your skin while reaching around to unhook your bra, "I see you’re still dramatic even during sex.”
“Would you want me any other way?” You ask, brushing the hair out of his face as his eyes meet yours.
“I want every part of you, exactly how you’ve always been,” he leans back slightly, taking in your naked appearance, “you’re perfect.”
Jihoon leans in to attach his mouth to your hardened nipple, keeping the other one between his index finger and thumb.
“Lay down for me,” You follow his command, shyly trying to cover your chest with your arms, but he stops you.
“You don’t need to hide from me,” he breathes, making his way down to your hips with his tongue.
Jihoon removes his sweats from you before running his finger over your covered slit. You let out a soft moan; it was the first time you had seen this side of your best friend, and somehow it felt like the most natural thing in the world. He carefully removes your thong, throwing it to the side.
“Okay, I’m gonna start now. Tell me to stop if you need a break, okay?” He says, giving your hand a slight squeeze but not letting go.
“Wait,” you stutter, grabbing hold of his wrist, “you’re wearing too many clothes.”
He let out a breathy laugh before removing his own sweats. You took the opportunity to look him up and down again. His toned abs made your mouth water, and you couldn’t keep your eyes off the huge bulge in his boxers. He notices.
“Let me take care of you first and then we will get to that, okay?”
You nod in response, bracing yourself while Jihoon settles between your legs.
“Wait! Ji I’m scared,” you declared, looking down at his startled expression.
“What’s scaring you? Let me fix it.”
“I’m just…I’m scared it won’t be the same after,” you let out a sigh while Jihoon sits up facing you, “and I haven’t done it in a while either. I’m nowhere near as experienced as other girls you’ve been with.”
“It will be whatever you want it to be after. I’m yours, no matter what boundaries you set. And I don’t need experienced girls, I just want you. Let me take care of you okay? Stop overthinking and relax baby,” he says quietly, brushing his thumb along your cheek.
You nod, feeling the weight of his care settle deep in your chest. The line you swore you wouldn’t cross had already blurred beyond recognition.
You were right about your friendship not being the same after this. Not when you’ve already fallen in love with your best friend.
Pushing aside those feelings for now, you watch him get back to his position, his dark hair falling over his eyes while he looks up at you through his long lashes.
He licks up your slit gently, before moving his tongue in circles around your clit. He pauses for a second, noticing how tense you are.
“Relax for me baby, just let yourself feel good.” He instructs, bringing a hand down to rest on your inner thigh. He continues to lap at you, holding onto you like you would break if he let go. Releasing your thigh from his grip, he parts your folds gently.
“I’m gonna put one in, you still okay?” Jihoon asks, bringing his head up to read your expression. You had now gone from feeling on edge to feeling euphoric.
“Yeah, I’m good” you respond, squeezing his hand reassuringly. He presses a finger into you, sliding it all the way in, keeping it still for a moment while he listens to your breathing. When he’s checked you’re still okay, he pumps it a few times before curling it inside you.
“Ah—Jihoon” you moan, causing him to go deeper. He reattached his mouth to your clit and added another finger, pumping them in and out of you at a speed that made your eyes roll back. You could feel your stomach tighten, dangerously close to finishing when he stops completely.
He makes his way up the bed to face you, mouth coated in your slick. A wave of bravery takes over you as you grab his chin and bring his lips to yours, tasting yourself.
“That was hot,” he pants when you finally pull away, causing you to smirk and do it again.
Jihoon plants one last peck on your lips before getting up from the bed, pulling his boxers down in one swift motion. His cock springs out, pink and leaking at the tip. You always knew he would be big, but you never thought you would be seeing it up close and personal.
“Woah,” you gawk, eyeing the bead of precum that was making its way down his length.
He laughs at you, making his way over to get back on top of you. “Condom?”
“Wait, I wanna go down on you too,” you whine, trying to push him up a bit.
He shakes his head, lowering it to graze his lips against your collarbone before leaving a soft kiss against the soft skin. “Next time baby, this is about you.”
“Next time?” You ask, reassuring yourself out loud that this wouldn’t be a one time thing. That this wouldn’t ruin your favourite dynamic with your favourite person.
“I swear to god y/n, if there’s no next time, I might actually lose my mind. No one else compares to you.” He kisses you again, letting you explore his mouth with your tongue. “So, condom?”
You shake your head, “I’m on the pill.” You knew that if you were going to fuck your best friend, you wanted to feel every inch of him.
“Are you ready?” He asks, peppering kisses over your cheek and down your neck, stopping at your collarbone.
You nod as he lines himself up at your entrance, using his free hand to grab yours, interlacing your fingers.
“It might hurt a little if you haven’t done it in a while. I’m gonna go slow okay?” He warns before slowly easing into you.
He works himself into you at a very slow pace, which you were thankful for. The stretch was intoxicating, and when he finally bottomed out, he let you adjust for a second.
“Do you need more time?” He asks softly, still every bit the gentleman as he holds himself perfectly still for you, even though the tension in his body makes it clear how much restraint it’s taking.
“No please, I need you to move,”
Jihoon pulled his hips back halfway before thrusting back into you. He felt amazing and it didn’t take long before he was pounding into you. Your whole body was on fire, and the only thing you could do was moan out his name over and over again.
“Holy shit—you’re so tight. You feel so fucking good,” he said in between low breaths. His hips began to move faster; the sound of skin against skin mixed with the headboard hitting the wall filling the room. It didn't take long for the tension to build up inside of you again.
“Jihoon—ah—I’m gonna—” you cried out, squeezing his hand with all your strength.
“Come for me baby.” His words sent you over the edge.
You saw stars while your fingers dug into the soft skin on his shoulder, as he worked you through your orgasm. Your walls constrict around him, causing him to moan loudly before releasing inside of you.
As Jihoon stilled above you, catching his breath, you admired his face. The pink tinge to his pale skin, the sweat that had formed in his hairline and the look of complete lust painted across his expression. You were in deep.
When he had finally come down from his high, Jihoon eased out of you slowly before collapsing on the bed.
“Was that okay?” He asks.
“That was amazing,” you turn onto your front, head resting on his chest as he runs his index finder up and down your spine, “why didnt you tell me you were a fucking god in bed?”
“I don’t think that’s a conversation you have with your childhood best friend who you’ve been in love with for years.”
His eyes meet yours. You stare at him, trying to process what he had just said. The way the L word just slipped out of his mouth so casually.
“I meant it,” he whispers, as if he just read your mind, “you don’t have to say it, I know this is new for you, but I’m ready for anything you want. I'm yours.”
“Jihoon i—,”
You take him in properly then. The curve of his mouth. The steadiness in his eyes. The way he looks at you like he’s already chosen you a thousand times over. You wonder if he has always been this beautiful — or if you’re only just letting yourself see him.
And suddenly, you understand.
You’ve loved him for a long time. Maybe longer than you’re brave enough to admit.
“I think I’ve been in love with you for a while now,” you confess quietly.
Jihoon’s face breaks out into the biggest smile you have ever seen, and you can’t help but smile back before kissing him again.
“Come on, let's get in the shower so i can clean you up,” he says standing and pulling you up with him causing you to groan.
Warnings: p in v, creampie, oral f receiving, unprotected sex, praise kink, light possessiveness, mild overstimulation, mild breeding kink
A/N: just a quick something before doing the requests i got lately
The gravel crunched under the tires as the rental SUV finally rolled to a stop in front of the cottage. Chan killed the engine and for a long moment neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t empty, it was full: of pine sap, distant woodpeckers, the faint metallic tick of the cooling motor and the sudden, almost embarrassing awareness that this was real. You were here. Married. Alone. For ten whole days.
Chan turned to you first. His left hand still rested on the wheel; the new platinum band on his fourth finger caught a stray shaft of late-afternoon sun and threw a tiny prism across the dashboard. He noticed you looking at it the same second you did.
"Still feels weird" he murmured, flexing his fingers once like he was testing whether the ring would stay put.
You reached over and covered his hand with yours. Your own ring, thinner, more delicate, but matching, clicked softly against his.
"Good weird?" you asked.
He exhaled through his nose, the sound half-laugh, half-sigh. "The best kind."
Then he was out of the car before you could answer, rounding the hood with that quick, purposeful stride he always used when he was trying not to look nervous. He opened your door like it was ceremony. Offered his hand. You took it and let him help you down even though the drop was barely 10 cm.
The air smelled sharply of resin and damp earth. Somewhere a stream flows. The cottage sat maybe twenty meters ahead, dark cedar siding, wide windows framed in forest green, a generous wraparound porch already dusted with fallen needles. Smoke was supposed to curl from the stone chimney later; right now the sky was still too bright for that kind of coziness.
Chan didn’t let go of your hand. Instead he tugged you gently toward the front door, then stopped short on the bottom porch step. You felt the shift in him before he even spoke, the way his shoulders squared, the sudden sheepish tilt of his head.
"What?" you asked, already smiling.
He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. Ears going faintly pink. "I, uh… I know no one’s watching. But I still want to do it right."
You blinked. "Do what right?"
He didn’t answer with words. In one smooth motion he bent, hooked an arm under your knees and the other behind your back and lifted. You yelped, more surprise than anything, then dissolved into helpless laughter as he carried you up the three steps. Your arms automatically wound around his neck; his hoodie smelled like the airport, your perfume, and him.
"Chan-"
"Tradition" he said solemnly, though the corners of his mouth were fighting a grin. "Can’t skip tradition on day eleven."
"Day eleven of forever" you corrected and felt the way his chest stuttered under your palms at the reminder.
He paused at the threshold long enough to nudge the door open with his foot. The hinges gave a soft, almost polite creak. Then he stepped inside, careful not to knock your head against the frame, and only set you down once he was fully over the line.
The moment your feet touched the wide-plank floorboards he kissed you. Not the quick, giddy ones from the past few days. This was slower. Deeper. His hands framed your face like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. When he finally pulled back his forehead rested against yours.
"Hi, wife" he whispered.
Your heart did something ridiculous: tripped, then soared.
"Hi, husband."
He smiled against your mouth, small and private, then kissed you again. Shorter this time. A punctuation mark rather than a paragraph.
Only then did he step back and actually look around. The cottage was exactly as the photos had promised, only better in person. Open-plan living area with a vaulted ceiling crossed by exposed beams. A stone fireplace that took up most of one wall. A kitchen island made from a single thick slab of walnut, still showing faint saw marks. Windows everywhere, floor-to-ceiling on the back wall looking straight into dense evergreens. The light inside was green-gold, filtered through needles.
Chan let out a low whistle. "This is… wow."
You wandered toward the windows while he went back outside to grab the suitcases. By the time he returned, two trips, stubbornly refusing your help, you had already kicked off your sneakers and were padding barefoot across the cool floorboards.
He dropped the bags near the couch, then came up behind you. Arms sliding around your waist. Chin hooking over your shoulder.
"Smell that?" he murmured.
You inhaled. Cedar. Woodsmoke from the last guests. Something faintly sweet, maybe wax polish. Underneath it all, him. Warm skin, faint traces of cologne that had survived twelve hours of travel.
"Yeah" you said softly.
He pressed his lips to the side of your neck. Just once. Lingering. "We’re really here."
You turned in his arms, hands sliding up to rest against his chest. His heart was beating a little fast. "We are."
For a few minutes you just stood like that, swaying slightly, not quite dancing, just breathing each other in. Eventually hunger won out. You hadn’t eaten since the airport breakfast sandwiches.
Chan insisted on making dinner. You perched on one of the bar stools at the island and watched him move around the tiny kitchen like he’d lived there for years. He’d packed half the suitcase with groceries from a market stop an hour back: fresh vegetables, thick slices of hanwoo beef, garlic, gochujang, sesame oil, a bottle of soju wrapped in a towel so it wouldn’t clink.
He hummed under his breath while he worked. Some melody you didn’t recognize, probably something he was still tinkering with in his head. Every so often he’d glance over at you and smile. Small. Secret. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were sitting there in his hoodie (the black one with the frayed drawstrings you’d stolen three years ago) watching your brand-new husband cook.
When the beef hit the hot pan the kitchen filled with sharp, caramelizing sizzle. You inhaled so deeply your eyes watered a little.
He laughed. "Hungry?"
"Starving."
He plated everything family-style: thin slices of perfectly seared meat, blistered shishito peppers, quick-pickled radish, steamed rice still sticking slightly to the sides of the pot. You ate at the little dining table near the windows as the sun dropped behind the ridge and turned the forest into velvet black.
After dinner you didn’t bother clearing the table right away. Instead Chan pulled you onto his lap on the wide leather couch. The fire he’d started earlier was crackling now, throwing shifting shadows across the walls. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck and felt him exhale, long and slow, like he was finally letting the last of the city tension bleed out of him.
"Tell me something" he said quietly.
"Hm?"
"Anything. Just… talk to me."
So you did. You told him about the way your mom had sobbed when she saw you in the wedding dress for the first time. How your little cousin had tried to sneak an entire tray of macarons under the table. How you’d caught Chan’s youngest sister filming you both during the first dance and making kissy faces behind the camera.
He laughed, soft, rumbling, every time you got to a funny part. His fingers kept tracing absent circles on your lower back.
Eventually you ran out of stories and just listened to his heartbeat instead. After a while he spoke again, voice so low you felt it more than heard it.
"I keep thinking about the vows."
You lifted your head. "Yeah?"
He nodded. Eyes on the fire. "When I said ‘in all the chaos and all the quiet’… I didn’t know what the quiet would actually feel like. Not really. Not until right now."
You cupped his cheek. Thumb brushing the faint freckle under his eye.
"It’s nice, isn’t it?"
"More than nice."
He turned his head to kiss your palm. "I could get used to this."
You smiled. "We’ve got nine more days to practice."
His grin turned a little wicked. "Nine days" he echoed. "And nights."
You laughed and swatted his chest. He caught your wrist and kissed the inside of it, then tugged you closer until you were straddling him properly. The hoodie rode up your thighs; his hands found skin immediately: warm, possessive, but still careful.
"Not tonight" you murmured against his mouth. "Tonight I just want… this."
He searched your face for a second, then nodded. "Okay."
So you stayed like that, kissing slow and lazy, hands wandering without urgency, the fire popping every so often like it was keeping time. Eventually you migrated to the bedroom upstairs. It had a king bed made up with cream linens, a thick wool throw at the foot, and another wall of windows that looked out over nothing but treetops.
You changed into sleep clothes while Chan brushed his teeth. When he came back he was shirtless, sweatpants slung low. The new tattoo on his ribs: the tiny crescent moon you’d drawn on a napkin three years ago and begged him to keep forever, was stark against his skin in the low lamplight.
He caught you staring. "Like what you see, Mrs. Bahng?"
The name hit like a soft punch every time.
You crossed the room and slid your arms around his waist. "Very much, Mr. Bahng."
He kissed the top of your head, then your forehead, then your mouth, gentle, lingering. When you finally crawled under the covers he followed, pulling you back against his chest the way he always did. One arm under your pillow. The other wrapped around your middle. His breath warm against your nape.
"Love you" he whispered into your hair.
It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. Not even close. But tonight it felt different. Permanent. Etched.
You turned your head just enough to find his lips in the dark. "Love you too."
Sleep came slow and sweet, wrapped in laundry scented sheets and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
The next morning you woke to birds and the smell of coffee.
Chan was already up, barefoot, hair a disaster, wearing the soft gray hoodie you’d abandoned last night. He’d opened every window on the ground floor; cool morning air moved through the house like a sigh.
He handed you a mug without a word. Black. Two sugars. Exactly how you liked it.
You sat together on the porch steps while the mist still clung to the pines. Neither of you spoke for almost twenty minutes. Just sipped. Watched. Breathed.
Eventually he bumped your shoulder with his. "Walk?"
You nodded. So you walked. Hand in hand down the narrow dirt path that curved behind the cottage and disappeared into the trees. The forest smelled like wet bark and green life. Ferns brushed your calves. Chan didn’t talk much. Just pointed out little things: a woodpecker flashing red against a trunk, mushrooms the color of apricots growing in a fallen log, the way sunlight shattered through the canopy and landed in bright coins on the path.
At one point he stopped, crouched, and picked up a perfect pinecone. Turned it over in his fingers like it was treasure.
"Souvenir?" you teased.
He looked up at you, eyes soft. "For the studio. Put it on the desk. Every time I look at it I’ll remember this."
Your throat tightened. He stood, slipped the pinecone into his hoodie pocket, then pulled you close and kissed you right there in the middle of the path. Slow. Thorough. Like he had all the time in the world. Because for once, he did.
The rest of the day passed in that same gentle rhythm. Coffee. Breakfast (pancakes he insisted on flipping dramatically, nearly catching the ceiling fan). A long nap on the couch with your head in his lap while he scrolled through photos from the wedding on his phone, showing you his favorites and pretending he wasn’t tearing up at the candid of you laughing during your vows.
Late lunch turned into early dinner because neither of you wanted to stop touching long enough to cook properly. You ended up eating cheese and crackers and fruit on the rug in front of the fire, feeding each other bites and laughing when strawberry juice dripped on his chin.
Night fell soft and cool. You took a bath together in the deep clawfoot tub, bubbles up to your chin, his long legs folded awkwardly around yours, both of you giggling like teenagers when water sloshed over the side.
Afterward he wrapped you in the biggest towel like you were something precious, carried you to bed, and spent twenty minutes just kissing every inch of skin he could reach. Not trying to start anything. Just… worshipping.
When he finally settled behind you again, spooning close, his voice was rough with sleep and something deeper.
"Best decision I ever made" he mumbled into your shoulder.
You laced your fingers with his. Felt the rings click together. "Second best" you whispered back. "First was letting me steal your hoodie three years ago."
He huffed a laugh against your neck. "Fair."
And then you both drifted off to the sound of wind moving through the pines and the soft crackle of embers dying in the hearth downstairs.
The golden hour had stretched longer than usual that afternoon, painting the entire cottage in honey and amber through the tall windows. You’d spent most of the day barefoot, wearing nothing but Chan’s oversized black hoodie, the one with the faded logo across the chest and sleeves so long they swallowed your hands. It hit you mid-thigh when you stood still, shorter when you reached or bent. You hadn’t bothered with anything underneath. Not today.
Chan had noticed. He’d noticed the first time you stretched up to grab a mug from the high shelf and the hem rode up just enough to show the soft curve where thigh met hip. He’d noticed again when you leaned across the kitchen island to steal a slice of apple from the cutting board he was using, the fabric shifting, exposing skin that made his knife pause mid-chop. He’d noticed every single time you walked past him, slow, deliberate, pretending you didn’t feel the weight of his gaze dragging down your legs like a physical touch.
By four, the air inside felt thicker than the pine-scented breeze drifting through the open windows. The fire he’d built earlier had died down to glowing coals; neither of you had bothered to add more wood. You were both too distracted.
You were rinsing a glass at the sink when you felt him move behind you. Not sudden. Not rushed. Just… inevitable. His chest pressed lightly to your back first. Then his hands, those beautiful, veined, calloused hands, slid over your hips, thumbs brushing the bare skin just under the hoodie’s hem. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, breathing you in, letting you feel how hard he already was through the soft fabric of his sweatpants.
You tilted your head back against his shoulder. "You’ve been staring all day."
His laugh was low. Rough. "Can you blame me?"
One hand slid up, slow and deliberate, until his palm flattened against your stomach under the hoodie. The other stayed low, fingers splaying across the top of your thigh, not quite touching where you wanted him most. Teasing.
"You look…" He swallowed. Voice dropped even lower. "…like mine."
The words landed heavy in your belly. You turned in his arms. The glass clinked forgotten against the sink edge.
Chan’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, that familiar flush creeping up his neck and into his ears. He looked wrecked already and he hadn’t even kissed you yet.
You reached up, fingers threading into the soft hair at his nape, tugging just enough to make him exhale sharply through his nose. "Then take what’s yours, husband."
The word snapped something in him. He kissed you like he was starving, open-mouthed, hungry, tongue sliding against yours with none of the careful sweetness from the night before. His hands shoved under the hoodie immediately, rough palms skating up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. You arched into him; he groaned into your mouth at the feel of bare skin, no bra, no barriers.
"Fuck" he breathed against your lips. "No underwear?"
"Thought you might like the surprise."
He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl. Then he was lifting you, effortless, like you weighed nothing, until your thighs wrapped around his waist. The hoodie rucked up completely now, bunched around your ribs. Cool air hit overheated skin; you shivered.
Chan carried you the few steps to the sturdy oak kitchen table. He didn’t bother clearing the cutting board or the half-chopped vegetables. Just shoved them aside with one forearm, carrots rolling, knife clattering and set you down on the edge.
He stepped between your legs, hands immediately pushing the hoodie higher until it bunched under your arms, exposing you completely to him. His gaze raked down your body like he was trying to memorize every inch all over again.
"God…" His voice cracked. "Look at you."
You leaned back on your palms, thighs parting wider in invitation. "Like what you see?"
He didn’t answer with words. Instead he dropped to his knees, right there on the worn rug in front of the table and hooked your legs over his shoulders in one smooth motion. You gasped when his mouth found the inside of your thigh, teeth grazing just enough to sting. He worked his way up slowly, deliberately, kissing and licking and sucking marks into skin that would bloom purple by morning.
When he finally reached where you were already slick and aching, he paused, just long enough to meet your eyes.
"Been thinking about this since the second we walked through the door yesterday" he murmured, breath hot against you. "About spreading you out. Tasting my wife on my tongue. Making you come so hard you forget your own name."
Then he licked a slow, broad stripe up your center. Your head fell back on a broken moan.
Chan didn’t tease after that. He devoured. Tongue flat and firm, then pointed and quick, circling your clit with devastating precision. Two fingers slid inside you without warning, thick, curled just right and you clenched around them immediately. He groaned at the feel of it, the sound vibrating through you.
"Fuck, you’re so wet" he rasped between licks. "So fucking perfect."
You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. He only doubled down, sucking your clit into his mouth, fingers pumping steadily, thumb brushing the sensitive spot just above where his tongue worked.
The table creaked under your shifting weight. Your heels dug into his back. Heat coiled tighter and tighter in your belly until it snapped, sudden, blinding. You came with a cry that echoed off the high ceiling, thighs trembling around his head, fingers yanking at his hair so hard it had to hurt.
He didn’t stop. Kept licking you through it, slower now, gentler, until the aftershocks faded and you were whimpering from overstimulation. Only then did he pull back.
His lips were swollen, chin glistening. Eyes wild. He rose slowly, hands sliding up your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave prints. When he kissed you again you tasted yourself on his tongue, salty, intimate. You moaned into his mouth.
"Need you" you whispered against his lips. "Now."
Chan didn’t make you ask twice. He shoved his sweatpants down just enough, cock springing free, thick and flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. He fisted himself once, twice, eyes locked on yours. "Condom?" he asked, voice gravel.
You shook your head. "I’m still on the pill. And we’re married now." You smiled, small and wicked. "I want to feel you. All of you."
Something feral flickered across his face. He lined himself up, notched the head against your entrance and pushed in, slow at first, letting you feel every inch, every ridge, until he was buried to the hilt. Both of you froze.
He dropped his forehead to yours. Breathing ragged. "Fuck…" The word was punched out of him. "You feel, shit, baby, you feel like heaven."
You clenched around him on purpose. He jerked. Swore under his breath in Korean, low, filthy things you only half-understood but felt everywhere. Then he started moving. Slow, deep rolls of his hips at first. Letting you adjust. Letting you feel him stretch you, fill you, claim you in a way that felt brand new even after years together. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above your hip bones.
"Look at me" he breathed.
You did. His eyes were liquid dark, pupils swallowing the brown. Sweat already beading at his temples. That stupidly beautiful face flushed and focused entirely on you.
"Mrs. Bahng" he whispered, testing the words again like they were still new magic. "My wife."
He thrust harder on the next stroke. Deeper. You gasped. He smiled, slow, dangerous.
"That’s it. Let me hear you."
The pace built steadily. The table rocked beneath you now, wood groaning in protest. Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving red crescents across ink and skin. He fucked you like he was trying to imprint himself inside you: long, punishing strokes that hit exactly where you needed, grinding his pelvis against your clit on every deep thrust.
"God, you’re so tight" he groaned. "So fucking wet for me. Always so ready."
You wrapped your legs higher around his waist, changing the angle. He swore again, loud this time, head dropping to your shoulder as he drove in harder.
"Chan-"
"Say it again" he demanded against your neck. Teeth grazing your pulse. "Say my name."
"Chan" you gasped. "Husband, fuck, please-"
He lifted his head. Kissed you messy and desperate. One hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that matched the rhythm of his hips.
"Come for me again" he growled against your mouth. "Wanna feel you come all over my cock. Wanna feel my wife fall apart."
The words, combined with the relentless pressure, the stretch, the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the universe, sent you over the edge for the second time.
You shattered. Loud. Unrestrained. Back arching off the table, thighs shaking, walls pulsing around him so hard he nearly lost rhythm.
He fucked you through it, harder, faster, chasing his own release now. His thrusts turned erratic, hips snapping, breath coming in sharp pants against your throat.
"Where?" he managed, voice wrecked. "Tell me where-"
"Inside" you breathed without hesitation. "Want it inside. Want all of you."
That did it. He slammed in one last time, deep, grinding and came with a guttural moan that vibrated through both of you. You felt him pulse, felt the hot rush of him filling you, felt the way his whole body shuddered as he emptied inside.
He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed buried deep, arms wrapping around you, pulling you up until you were sitting pressed chest-to-chest. His forehead rested against yours again. Both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat.
For long minutes there was only the sound of your breathing, the faint crackle of dying coals in the fireplace, and the occasional drip of water from the sink you’d never turned off.
Chan kissed your temple. Soft. Reverent.
"Mrs. Bahng" he whispered again, like he couldn’t stop tasting it.
You smiled against his cheek. "Mr. Bahng."
He huffed a laugh, still breathless, then kissed you properly. Slow. Lazy. Full of all the things neither of you needed to say out loud anymore.
Eventually he softened enough to slip out. You both winced at the loss. He glanced down between you, watched the slow trickle of his come leak out and made a low, appreciative sound in his throat.
"Fuck. That’s hot."
You laughed, swatting his chest weakly. "Perv."
"Your perv." He grinned. Kissed the tip of your nose. "Forever."
He helped you down from the table, legs shaky, thighs sticky then scooped you up bridal-style like he had on the threshold yesterday. You looped your arms around his neck.
"Bed?" you asked.
"Shower first" he decided. "Then bed. Then maybe round two."
You raised an eyebrow. "Already?"
He carried you toward the stairs anyway. "I’ve got eight more days to make sure you can still feel me when we get home" he murmured against your ear. "Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to be mine."
You shivered. Pressed closer.
"Good" you whispered back. "Because I don’t ever want to forget."
He kissed you again, right there on the stairs, slow and deep and full of promise.
Then he carried you the rest of the way upstairs, into the bathroom, under the warm spray of the shower where he washed you carefully, reverently, like you were something sacred.
And when you finally collapsed into the big bed afterward, clean, boneless, tangled together under the thick quilts, he pulled you close, lips brushing your shoulder.
"Love you" he murmured into your skin.
You turned just enough to find his mouth in the dark. "Love you too."
The forest outside was quiet except for the wind in the pines.
Inside, it was only the sound of two hearts beating in time. And the soft click of wedding rings brushing together under the covers.
Arranged marriage, strangers to lovers, fluff, smut
Serendipity: the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.
Wc:~6.6k
Part 1
Summary: After the secret dates turned your arranged marriage from obligation into love, you and Mingyu finally say "I do". But the families waste no time trying to mold you into perfect heirs and hostesses. Yet every push only pulls you closer: drawing firm lines, stealing quiet nights, and choosing each other over legacy until the pressure finally recedes.
Warnings: social pressure, family expectations, controling parents, smut, unprotected sex, fingering, oral, multiple rounds + encounters
The morning of the wedding dawned too bright, too perfect, like the universe had conspired to make everything look expensive and inevitable.
You stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bridal suite of the Grand Lumière Hotel, the same venue your mother had booked eighteen months ago when the merger talks first turned serious. The dress was ivory silk, simple in cut, devastating in execution. It skimmed your body like liquid light, the neckline dipping just low enough to feel daring, the train pooling behind you in soft folds that whispered with every tiny shift of weight. Your hair was swept into a low bun, a few strands left loose to frame your face. The makeup artist had done her job flawlessly: dewy skin, soft smoky eyes, lips the color of crushed rose petals.
You looked like a bride. You felt like someone playing a very expensive part.
A soft knock. Your mother slipped inside, already dressed in pale champagne, diamonds glittering at her throat and ears. She stopped short when she saw you, hand flying to her mouth in that practiced, teary way society-page photographers loved.
"Oh, darling" she breathed. "You’re exquisite."
You offered a small smile, the one you’d been practicing in the mirror for weeks. "Thanks, Mom."
She crossed the room in careful steps, heels clicking on marble, and adjusted the veil that had been pinned into place an hour ago. Her fingers trembled just slightly as she smoothed the tulle.
"Everything is perfect" she said, almost to herself. "The flowers arrived on time, the string quartet is rehearsing downstairs, and the guest list…" She trailed off, eyes shining. "Two hundred and eighty confirmations. Your father is beside himself with pride."
You nodded. Two hundred and eighty people you barely knew, most of them board members, investors, rival CEOs and a handful of distant cousins who only appeared for weddings and funerals. The real guest list: the friends you’d wanted to invite, had been quietly culled down to twelve. "Intimate" your mother had called it. Strategic, you’d thought.
She caught your eye in the mirror. "You’re quiet."
"Just… taking it in."
Her smile softened, but there was steel beneath it. "This is a good day, sweetheart. For all of us. The companies are stronger together. And Mingyu..." She paused, choosing her words with care. "He’s a good man. Steady. Kind. He’ll take care of you."
You swallowed the automatic response that rose in your throat and replaced it with "I know."
She squeezed your shoulders once, then stepped back. "I’ll send the photographer in. And your father will walk you down in twenty minutes." A final pat, maternal and possessive. "Chin up. You’re radiant."
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
You exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the diamond choker at your throat, a gift from Mingyu’s mother, delivered yesterday with a note that read: "To welcome you properly into the family." It felt heavier than it should.
Your phone buzzed on the vanity. A text from the one person who wasn’t part of today’s script.
Mingyu: "You okay?"
You typed back immediately.
You: "Breathing. You?"
Mingyu: "Staring at my cufflinks like they personally offended me. Dad just gave me the "legacy" speech again. Third time this week."
You: "Mine reminded me how perfect everything is."
Mingyu: "They’re not wrong. You’re going to kill me when I see you."
A small, real smile tugged at your lips, the first one all morning.
You: "Save it for later. We only have to survive the next eight hours."
Mingyu: "Eight hours and then it’s just us. No parents. No cameras. I’m counting the seconds."
You: "Me too."
You set the phone face-down and looked at yourself again. The woman in the mirror didn’t look terrified. She looked composed. Collected. But inside, your heart was racing, not from fear, but from something dangerously close to anticipation.
The ceremony was beautiful in the way expensive things always are. Crystal chandeliers, white roses in towering arrangements, a string quartet playing Pachelbel’s Canon as guests murmured and phones were discreetly angled for candids. Your father’s arm was steady under yours as he walked you down the aisle. He smelled of aftershave and quiet pride.
Mingyu waited at the altar. He wore midnight black, tailored to perfection, shoulders broad, waist narrow, the single white rose in his lapel a small rebellion against the sea of tradition. When he saw you, his breath caught visibly. His eyes, those warm, dark eyes you’d fallen into over café tables and aquarium tunnels, went glassy for a second before he blinked it away and smiled. The kind of smile that made your chest ache.
You reached him. Your father placed your hand in Mingyu’s. The transfer felt symbolic in a way that hadn’t occurred to you until that moment: handing off responsibility, legacy, expectation.
Mingyu’s fingers closed around yours. Warm. Sure. He squeezed once, a silent "I’ve got you" and didn’t let go.
The officiant spoke. Vows were exchanged: traditional ones, carefully edited by both sets of lawyers so nothing too personal slipped in. Rings slid onto fingers. A kiss, chaste for the cameras, but his lips lingered just long enough that you felt the tremor in them.
The room erupted in polite applause.
Photographs took another hour. Posed shots with parents, with siblings, with board members who shook Mingyu’s hand like they were closing a deal. You smiled until your cheeks hurt. Mingyu’s thumb kept brushing small circles on the inside of your wrist whenever no one was looking.
Finally, the reception.
The grand ballroom had been transformed: gold accents, candlelight, a six-tier cake frosted in ivory and topped with sugar orchids. Champagne flowed. Toasts were made: your father spoke of unity and shared vision; Mingyu’s father spoke of legacy and continuity. Both managed to mention grandchildren in the same breath as quarterly projections.
You and Mingyu sat at the head table, knees pressed together under the cloth. Every time someone approached with congratulations, he slid his hand to your thigh, just resting there, grounding.
When the band started the first dance, he stood and offered his hand.
"Ready to pretend we’re newlyweds?" he murmured.
You slipped your fingers into his. "We are newlyweds."
His smile turned private. "Yeah. We are."
He led you to the center of the floor. The lights dimmed. A slow, jazzy rendition of "At Last" began.
One hand at the small of your back, the other holding yours against his chest, he pulled you close. You rested your cheek against his shoulder, breathing in cedar and clean cotton and him.
"I meant every word" he whispered against your temple. "Even the scripted ones. Especially the ones I didn’t get to say."
You tilted your head back just enough to meet his eyes. "Tell me now."
He swallowed. "I love you. Not because of contracts or families or boardrooms. I love you because you laugh at my terrible jokes and steal bites of my food and make me want to be better. I love you because you chose me when you didn’t have to. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret it."
Tears stung your eyes. You blinked them back.
"I love you too" you whispered. "For exactly who you are. Not the heir. Not the merger. Just you."
He kissed you then: slow, deep, unhurried. The room faded. The cameras, the expectations, the whispers. Just the two of you, swaying in the middle of a ballroom that suddenly felt too small to contain what was building between you.
The song ended. Applause again. You barely heard it.
The rest of the night passed in fragments: cutting the cake, more photos, stolen moments in quiet corners where he’d back you against a wall and kiss you until you were breathless, murmuring "soon" against your mouth.
When the last guest finally left, your parents hugged you both, tight, proud, already talking about the next family gathering. Mingyu’s mother pressed a small velvet box into your hands: a pair of diamond studs "for everyday wear." Your father shook Mingyu’s hand like he’d just won a bid.
And then, finally, it was just you and him.
The honeymoon suite was obscene in its luxury: rose petals on the bed, champagne on ice, a balcony overlooking the city skyline. The door closed behind you with a decisive click.
Mingyu leaned back against it, loosening his tie with one hand while watching you kick off your heels.
"You survived" he said softly.
"We survived."
He crossed the room in three strides, cupped your face, and kissed you like he’d been holding it in for hours. This time there was no audience. No restraint.
Hands roamed. Zippers slid. Fabric pooled on the floor.
He lifted you easily, legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. Rose petals scattered under your back. He laid you down like you were fragile, then hovered above you, eyes dark and reverent.
"No rush" he murmured, kissing along your collarbone. "We have all night. All the nights."
You pulled him down, needing the weight of him, the heat. "I want you now."
He groaned against your throat. "Thank god."
Clothes vanished. Skin met skin. His mouth was everywhere: neck, breasts, stomach, worshipping, memorizing. When he settled between your thighs, he looked up one last time.
"Tell me you’re sure."
"I’ve never been more sure."
He entered you slowly, watching your face the entire time. The stretch, the fullness, the way your bodies locked together, it felt like coming home.
You moved together, slow at first, then deeper, harder, chasing the edge. His hands pinned yours above your head; your legs hooked around his hips. Whispers turned to gasps, gasps to moans.
When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears in your eyes, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of being wanted so completely.
He followed moments later, burying his face in your neck, shuddering through the aftershocks.
For long minutes you stayed tangled, breathing each other in.
Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling you against his chest. Fingers traced lazy patterns on your spine.
"Tomorrow the real world starts again" he said quietly.
You pressed a kiss to his collarbone. "Let it. We’ve got this."
He tilted your chin up. "Yeah. We do."
The next morning, sunlight spilled across the sheets. Your phone buzzed incessantly on the nightstand.
Mingyu groaned, reaching for it first. He scanned the screen and laughed, low, disbelieving.
"What?"
"Both our mothers. Joint text. They’ve already booked a "welcome to the family" brunch for next weekend. And your mom attached a list of fertility clinics. "Just in case you want to start planning.""
You snatched the phone, read the messages, and let your head fall back against the pillow with a groan of your own.
"They really don’t waste time."
Mingyu tossed the phone aside and rolled on top of you, bracketing your wrists gently.
"Let them plan" he said, voice low and steady. "They can plan whatever they want. But this-" he kissed you slow and deep "this part? This is ours."
You arched into him, already wanting more. "Ours."
He smiled against your mouth. "And no one gets to touch it."
The phones kept buzzing. You ignored them.
The first week back in the city felt like stepping off a dream straight into a boardroom.
You and Mingyu returned from the brief, carefully curated "honeymoon" escape: five days in a private villa on Jeju Island that his father had insisted on booking ("for appearances," the note had read) to find the penthouse already invaded in subtle ways.
A new set of keys had been left on the marble kitchen island. Your mother’s handwriting on the attached card: "Darling, I had the locks rekeyed while you were away, just in case of emergencies. The designer will be by tomorrow at 10 to discuss updating the guest rooms. We want everything perfect for when the family visits. Love you."
Mingyu read it over your shoulder, jaw tightening for half a second before he exhaled through his nose and set the card face-down.
"She didn’t even ask" he muttered.
You leaned against him, forehead to his shoulder. "She never does."
He wrapped both arms around you from behind, chin resting on top of your head. "We change the locks tomorrow. New set. Only we get copies."
You nodded against his chest. "And tell her no to the designer."
"Already drafting the text."
The message you sent together, polite, firm, joint, was simple: "Thank you for thinking of us, but we’d prefer to handle the apartment ourselves. We’ll let you know when we’re ready for visitors. Love you both."
Your mother’s reply came within minutes: "Of course, sweetheart. Just want to help. Call if you change your mind."
It felt like the first small victory. But victories were short-lived.
Mingyu’s father called the next morning at 7:42 am, exactly the time he knew Mingyu would be finishing his coffee and reviewing quarterly projections.
Mingyu put it on speaker so you could hear.
"Son. Good to have you back. The board’s eager to see the two of you at the quarterly dinner next week. Full attendance this time, spouses included. It’s important we present a united front now that the merger’s public."
Mingyu pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dad, we just got back. Can we skip this one?"
A pause, long enough to feel pointed. "It’s not optional. Investors want to meet the new Mrs. Kim. See the stability. You understand."
You mouthed "I’ll go" from across the island. Mingyu shook his head once, sharp.
"We’ll discuss it" he said evenly. "But no promises."
Another pause. "Your mother already RSVP’d yes for both of you. The seating chart is finalized."
Mingyu’s jaw ticked. "Then un-finalize it. We’re not props."
The line went quiet for so long you thought it had dropped. Then: "Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Mingyu. Legacy isn’t built on sentiment."
The call ended. Mingyu stared at the phone like it had personally betrayed him.
You walked around the island, slid between his thighs where he sat on the barstool, and cupped his face.
"Hey."
He exhaled, forehead dropping to yours. "I hate that tone. Like I’m still twenty-two and interning."
"You’re not." You kissed the corner of his mouth. "You’re my husband. And we decide what we do."
He pulled you closer until you were seated on his lap, arms banded around your waist.
"I know" he murmured. "Just… takes practice saying it out loud to them."
You threaded your fingers through his hair. "We’ll practice together."
That night you cooked dinner, nothing fancy, just his favorite galbi-jjim recipe that he’d taught you during one of your secret pre-wedding dates. He hovered behind you at the stove, arms around your middle, chin on your shoulder, offering unnecessary commentary.
"Too much sesame oil."
"You always say that."
"Because it’s true."
You elbowed him lightly. He laughed, the real one, low and warm and kissed the side of your neck.
Dinner was eaten on the living-room floor, picnic-style: blanket spread, wine poured into mismatched mugs because the crystal was still in boxes. You talked about stupid things: your latest freelance project (a rebrand for an indie bookstore chain), his plan to push for more sustainable materials in the next development phase, until the conversation drifted inevitably back to the quarterly dinner.
"I don’t want to parade you around like a trophy" he said quietly, setting his chopsticks down. "They’ll ask about kids. They always do."
You reached for his hand. "Then we tell them the truth: we’re not ready, and it’s not their business."
He laced your fingers together. "They’ll push."
"Let them push. We push back."
He studied you for a long moment, eyes soft, searching, then leaned forward and kissed you slow and deep, tasting of gochujang and wine and gratitude.
Later, in bed, he moved over you with a kind of deliberate tenderness that made your chest ache. Slow rolls of his hips, hands cradling your face, whispers against your lips: "You’re mine. Not theirs. Mine."
You came undone beneath him whispering the same truth back.
The quarterly dinner arrived like a storm you couldn’t avoid.
The venue was one of the Kim family’s signature properties: a sleek rooftop restaurant overlooking the Han River, glass walls, ambient lighting, waitstaff who moved like shadows. You wore the emerald dress from your third secret date, the one that had made Mingyu stare too long and he wore the same midnight suit from the wedding, tie loosened the second you stepped out of the car.
His hand stayed at the small of your back the entire evening.
The board members greeted you with practiced warmth: handshakes, compliments on the wedding photos ("such a striking couple"), subtle probes about your plans now that you were "settled".
You answered each one the same way: polite deflection wrapped in steel.
"My work keeps me busy, exciting projects coming up."
"We’re enjoying settling into our own rhythm."
"No timeline for children, we’re taking things at our pace."
Mingyu’s grip tightened fractionally every time someone pushed.
His mother cornered you near the dessert table.
"You look radiant, darling. Marriage suits you."
"Thank you."
She leaned closer, voice dropping. "I’ve spoken with a few specialists. Discreet. Excellent reputations. If you’d like-"
"We’re not planning anything yet" you said calmly. "When we are, we’ll decide together."
Her smile didn’t falter, but her eyes cooled. "Of course. Just… don’t wait too long. Timing matters in families like ours."
Mingyu appeared at your side like he’d materialized from thin air, arm sliding around your waist.
"Everything okay?"
"Perfect" his mother said brightly. "Just girl talk."
He pressed a kiss to your temple, deliberate, possessive. "Good. Because I need to steal my wife for a minute."
He guided you toward the balcony doors.
Outside, the night air was cool against heated skin. The city glittered below like it had the night of your third date.
He backed you gently against the railing, hands framing your face.
"You were incredible in there" he murmured.
"So were you."
He kissed you, slow, deep, unhurried. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
"I’m so fucking proud of you."
You smiled against his mouth. "Proud of us."
A beat of quiet. Then: "Let’s leave early."
You raised a brow. "Won’t they notice?"
"Let them."
You laughed softly. "Okay."
You slipped back inside only long enough to say polite goodbyes, vague excuses about an early meeting tomorrow. His father’s frown followed you to the elevator, but neither of you looked back.
In the car, Mingyu tugged you across the backseat until you were straddling his lap, dress rucked up around your thighs.
"Couldn’t wait" he muttered, kissing along your neck.
You grinned, fingers in his hair. "Good thing the partition’s up."
The driver (discreet, well-paid) pretended the glass was soundproof.
Back at the penthouse, clothes hit the floor in the foyer. He carried you to the kitchen island, sat you on the edge, and dropped to his knees between your legs like a man starved.
His mouth was relentless: tongue circling, fingers curling inside you, free hand gripping your thigh hard enough to leave faint marks you’d admire in the morning. You came shaking, one hand braced on the marble, the other tangled in his hair, moaning his name like a prayer.
He rose, kissed you so you tasted yourself, then lifted you again, straight to the bedroom.
This time he took you from behind, slow at first, then deeper, one hand between your legs, the other wrapped around your throat just enough to make your pulse race.
When you both collapsed, sweaty and spent, he pulled you against his chest, legs tangled, hearts hammering in tandem.
"I love you" he whispered into your hair. "More than any of this."
You turned in his arms, kissed the hollow of his throat. "I love you too. And we’re doing this right. Our way."
He smiled, small, tired, real. "Our way."
The next morning your phone buzzed with a forwarded email from your mother: a fertility clinic brochure, highlighted.
You deleted it without opening.
Mingyu’s phone buzzed seconds later: his father, scheduling a "strategy meeting" for next week. Mingyu silenced it, rolled over and kissed you awake instead.
"Coffee?" he murmured against your lips.
"Only if you make it shirtless."
He laughed, the sound muffled against your neck and obeyed.
The weight of everyone else’s plans felt… distant. Not gone. But no longer heavy enough to crush what you’d found.
The invitation arrived via courier: thick cream cardstock, gold-embossed crest of the Kim family holding company, delivered to the penthouse at exactly 9:17 am on a Thursday morning while you were still in your robe, sipping coffee and scrolling through client feedback emails.
Mingyu opened it first. He read silently, jaw tightening with each line. Then he handed it to you without a word.
"In celebration of the successful integration of the Lee-Kim merger and the one-month anniversary of our families’ union, we cordially invite you to a private family gathering. Date: Saturday, 18th October Time: 6:00 pm midnight Venue: The Evergreen Estate, Hanam-dong Dress: Formal Hosted by Mr. & Mrs. Kim Tae-hoon and Mr. & Mrs. Lee Min-seok"
A small handwritten note was clipped to the back in Mingyu’s mother’s elegant script: "We’ve missed seeing you both. It’s time to gather properly as one family. Bring your smiles and good news, if there is any. We look forward to toasting the future."
You set the card down carefully, like it might bite.
Mingyu leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed, staring at the invitation as though it had personally insulted him.
"They’re not even asking" he said quietly. "It’s presented like we already said yes."
You traced the embossed crest with your fingertip. "Because in their minds, we did. We’re married. We’re the merger’s public face. Showing up is part of the contract."
He exhaled sharply through his nose. "I’m tired of being part of the contract."
You stepped closer, sliding your arms around his waist from behind. He relaxed fractionally into your hold, but the tension didn’t leave his shoulders.
"We don’t have to go" you murmured against his back.
He turned in your arms, hands settling on your hips. "If we don’t, they’ll spin it. 'The newlyweds are too busy adjusting.' 'Perhaps they’re keeping private news.' It’ll be gossip by Monday."
You rested your forehead against his chest. "Then we go. But on our terms."
He kissed the top of your head. "Our terms."
The Evergreen Estate was exactly what the name implied: sprawling, manicured, old money disguised as tasteful restraint. Lanterns lined the gravel drive, security at every gate, valets in crisp uniforms. Inside, the main hall smelled of fresh lilies and polished wood. A string quartet played softly in the corner. Servers circulated with champagne flutes and bite-sized canapés.
Your parents arrived first: your mother in sapphire blue, already scanning the room like she was checking attendance. Your father shook hands with Mingyu’s father as though sealing another deal.
Mingyu’s hand found the small of your back the second you stepped through the arched doorway. He wore charcoal gray, sharp, understated, the single silver cufflink you’d given him glinting under the chandelier light. You’d chosen black: a sleek column dress with a high neck and long sleeves, subtle enough to blend in, bold enough to remind everyone you weren’t here to be decorative.
Heads turned. Smiles were offered. Compliments flowed like the champagne.
"You two look radiant." "Marriage agrees with you." "So good to see the families united at last."
Mingyu’s responses were polite, clipped. Yours were warmer but no less guarded.
Dinner was announced at 7:30. Long tables arranged in a U-shape, place cards meticulously positioned. You and Mingyu were seated at the center, flanked by both sets of parents.
The first course passed in small talk: merger synergies, stock performance, upcoming charity galas. Safe topics.
Then Mingyu’s mother leaned forward, voice bright.
"We were just discussing timelines" she said, smiling at you both. "The board has been asking about the next generation. Stability is so important in these early years of integration."
Your fork paused halfway to your mouth. Mingyu’s hand found your knee under the table, steady, grounding.
"We’ve discussed it" he said evenly. "We’re not rushing."
His father chuckled, low, paternal. "No one’s rushing, son. But nature has its schedule. And the shareholders like certainty."
Your mother chimed in smoothly. "Exactly. Y/N’s always been so independent, such a wonderful quality, but family comes first now. Perhaps it’s time to consider stepping back from freelance work. Focus on what really matters."
The table quieted. Eyes flicked between you and your mother.
You set your fork down deliberately.
"I love my work" you said, voice calm but clear. "It’s not going anywhere. And children, if and when we decide to have them, will be our decision. Not a shareholder vote."
Silence stretched. Mingyu’s thumb stroked small circles on your knee: approval, pride.
His father cleared his throat. "Of course. But perception matters. The market responds to legacy."
Mingyu’s voice cut through, quiet but steel-edged. "Then let the market respond to results. The merger’s numbers are up twelve percent since the announcement. That’s legacy. Not speculation about my wife’s womb."
A ripple of discomfort moved through the table. Your father tried to smooth it over. "We’re all just excited for the future-"
"No" Mingyu said, louder this time. "You’re excited for control. And we’re done pretending it’s excitement."
He stood. You rose with him. The quartet faltered for half a measure before resuming. Mingyu looked around the table, first at his parents, then yours.
"We’re grateful for the families coming together. Truly. But this-" he gestured to the table, the estate, the unspoken expectations "this isn’t gratitude. This is pressure. And we won’t be pressured."
He offered you his hand. You took it.
"We’re going home" he said simply. "We’ll see you when we’re ready to see you. Not before."
No one spoke as you walked out.
The drive back was quiet. Mingyu’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. You reached over and covered his hand with yours.
He exhaled shakily. "I didn’t mean to blow it up like that."
"You said what needed saying."
He glanced at you, eyes soft in the passing streetlights. "You were magnificent."
"So were you."
Back at the penthouse, the door had barely closed before he had you against it, kissing you like the world was ending and beginning at the same time.
Hands frantic. Mouths desperate. Clothes shed in the hallway.
He lifted you; your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you to the living room. No bed. No patience.
He sat on the couch, you straddling him. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise as you sank down onto him, slow at first, then faster, chasing release like it could erase the evening.
You rode him with purpose, nails on his shoulders, forehead pressed to his, whispering broken praises.
"You’re mine." "We’re enough." "They don’t get to touch this."
He flipped you beneath him, hooked your legs over his shoulders, thrust deep and deliberate until you were crying out, back arching, vision whiting.
He followed with a low sound, burying himself to the hilt, shuddering through the aftershocks.
You stayed locked together for long minutes, sweat cooling, breaths syncing.
Eventually he eased out, gathered you against his chest on the couch, pulled the throw blanket over both of you.
His fingers carded through your hair.
"I meant it" he whispered. "We’re done letting them dictate."
You nodded against his collarbone. "Tomorrow we send the message. Together."
He kissed your temple. "Together."
The next morning (Sunday) you drafted it side by side at the kitchen island.
"Subject: Boundaries
Dear Mom, Dad, Mr. & Mrs. Kim. Last night made it clear that our families have different expectations for what this marriage means. We are grateful for the union and for the business successes it has brought. But our home, our careers, our timeline for children, and our private life are not open for discussion or negotiation. We will continue to honor family ties on our terms: scheduled visits when we invite them, joint events when we choose to attend. Unsolicited advice, surprise appointments and assumptions about our future will no longer be welcome. We love each other deeply. That love is real, chosen and ours alone. Please respect that. With affection, Mingyu & Y/N."
You hit send together.
The replies came in waves: hurt, defensive, conciliatory, silent.
Mingyu’s mother called twice. Your father sent a long text about "disappointment" and "responsibility."
You turned both phones to Do Not Disturb.
Then you made breakfast: pancakes, because Mingyu liked them with too much syrup and whipped cream. You ate on the balcony, feet in each other’s laps, watching the city wake up.
He fed you a bite from his fork. You licked syrup off his thumb.
Later, in the shower, he washed your hair with slow, careful fingers. Under the spray he murmured against your wet shoulder "I’ve never felt more free."
You turned, kissed him through the water. "Me too."
The pressure hadn’t vanished. It still lingered at the edges: phone notifications, future invitations, the weight of legacy. But it no longer lived inside your home. Inside your home, there was only space for two people who had chosen each other, again and again, against every expectation the world tried to impose.
The silence after the message felt louder than any argument.
For three full days after the first reactions, neither set of parents responded. No calls, no texts, no surprise deliveries of "helpful" brochures or passive-aggressive fruit baskets. The penthouse stayed quiet, almost suspiciously so. You and Mingyu moved through the space like you were testing the new boundaries, half-expecting someone to burst through the door with a clipboard and a lecture.
Monday morning arrived without fanfare. You woke to sunlight slanting across the bed, Mingyu’s arm heavy across your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He smelled like sleep and cedar and the faint trace of last night’s shower gel. You stayed still for a long minute, listening to his steady breathing, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back.
Then your phone buzzed once, soft, almost apologetic on the nightstand. You reached for it carefully so you wouldn’t wake him. A single text from your mother: "I read your message again. We’re sorry if we overstepped. We only want the best for you both. Take the time you need. We love you."
No signature flourish. No emoji. No follow-up guilt trip.
You stared at the words until they blurred, then set the phone down and turned in Mingyu’s arms.
He stirred, eyes cracking open, dark lashes still heavy with sleep.
"Morning" he mumbled, voice gravel-rough.You kissed the tip of his nose. "Morning. Mom texted."
His brows lifted slightly. "And?"
"She’s sorry. They’re giving us space."
He exhaled long and slow, like air leaving a balloon that had been overinflated for months. Then he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him until you were sprawled across his chest.
"Mine hasn’t said anything yet" he said quietly. "But Dad’s assistant canceled the 'strategy meeting' that was on the calendar. No reschedule."
You traced idle patterns on his collarbone with your fingertip. "Progress."
"Progress" he echoed.
He caught your hand, brought it to his lips, kissed each knuckle one by one.
"I want to celebrate" he murmured against your skin. "Properly. No parents, no boardrooms, no mergers. Just us."
You smiled down at him. "What did you have in mind?"
His grin turned slow and wicked. "Stay in bed all day?"
"Tempting. But I have a client call at eleven."
"Cancel it."
"Can’t. Big rebrand pitch. If it lands, it’s my biggest freelance contract yet."
He groaned dramatically, but his eyes were soft. "Fine. Then tonight, dinner here. I cook. You wear that silk slip thing you think I don’t notice you put on when you want attention."
You laughed, low and pleased. "Deal."
The day passed in ordinary rhythm, your call went well, Mingyu had back-to-back meetings but texted you ridiculous selfies from the construction site he was inspecting ("proof I’m wearing a hard hat, safety first, wife-approved"). By evening the penthouse smelled like garlic, sesame oil, and the slow-braised short ribs he’d been perfecting for weeks.
You set the table on the balcony, simple white linens, candles in mismatched holders, the city lights glittering below like they belonged to someone else entirely. You wore the silk slip, black, bias-cut, barely-there straps and nothing else. When Mingyu saw you step onto the balcony, he froze mid-pour, wine bottle hovering over a glass.
"Fuck" he breathed.
You smirked. "Language, Mr. Kim."
He set the bottle down, crossed the space in three strides and kissed you like he’d been waiting eight hours to do exactly that. Hands slid up your thighs, bunching silk, thumbs brushing bare skin.
"Dinner’s going to burn" you whispered against his mouth.
"Let it."
You laughed and pushed him gently toward the table. "Food first. Then dessert."
He groaned but obeyed, pulling out your chair with exaggerated chivalry.
Dinner was perfect: tender ribs falling off the bone, kimchi pancakes crispy at the edges, chilled soju that burned pleasantly down your throat. Conversation drifted lazily: your client loved the pitch deck, his team green-lit the eco-friendly material switch he’d been fighting for, you both agreed the new couch was too big but too comfortable to return.
After plates were cleared, he poured the last of the soju and leaned back, watching you over the rim of his glass.
"I keep thinking about last week" he said quietly. "The way you stood up at that table. No hesitation. No apology."
You shrugged one shoulder. "I learned from the best."
He reached across the table, took your hand. "I love you more every day. Did you know that?"
Your chest tightened pleasantly. "I suspected."
He stood, rounded the table, and pulled you up into his arms. The kiss was slower this time, less frantic, more deliberate. Like he had all the time in the world now.
He lifted you easily, legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you inside. Clothes came off in pieces: your slip pooling on the living-room floor, his shirt unbuttoned and discarded somewhere near the couch. By the time you reached the bedroom, you were both bare, skin flushed from wine and anticipation.
He laid you down gently, but there was nothing gentle in the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.
"No rush tonight" he murmured, kissing down your throat, across your collarbone, lingering at your breasts until your back arched. "I want to feel every second."
His mouth moved lower; stomach, hips, inner thighs, teasing until you were trembling. When his tongue finally found you, it was slow, reverent, precise. He took his time, learning every hitch in your breath, every involuntary roll of your hips. Two fingers slid inside, curling just right, and you came apart with a soft cry, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs shaking around his head.
He kissed his way back up your body, tasting like you, eyes dark and pleased.
When he settled between your legs, he didn’t enter right away. He simply rested there, hot, hard, pressing against you while he kissed you deep and lazy, sharing the taste of you.
"Tell me again" he whispered.
"I love you."
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the entire time. When he was fully seated, he paused, forehead pressed to yours.
He moved then, long, deep rolls of his hips that made you gasp every time he bottomed out. Hands linked above your head. Eyes locked. No words needed; everything was said in the way he held you, the way you clung to him, the way your bodies knew exactly what the other needed.
You came again, sharper this time, clenching around him until he groaned low in his throat. He followed moments later, hips stuttering, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you with a broken sound of your name.
Afterward, he didn’t pull away immediately. He stayed inside you, softening slowly, kissing your eyelids, your cheeks, the tip of your nose.
Eventually he eased out, cleaned you both with a warm cloth from the bathroom, then crawled back under the covers and pulled you against his chest.
You listened to his heartbeat slow.
"Think they’ll stay away?" you asked quietly.
"For a while." His fingers traced your spine. "Long enough for us to forget they exist sometimes."
You smiled into his skin. "I like that plan."
Weeks turned into months.
The families kept their distance: polite texts instead of calls, invitations that included "whenever you’re free" instead of assumptions. Your mother sent a small bouquet for your birthday with a card that simply read: "Proud of you. Always."
Mingyu’s father forwarded an article about the company’s sustainability pivot with a single line: "Your idea. Well done."
No pressure. No timelines. Just quiet acknowledgment that the boundaries had been heard.
You kept your freelance work, landed two more major clients and started a small side project: a collaborative design studio with a friend from art school. Mingyu pushed through the last of the old-guard resistance at the company and got approval for a new mixed-use development with public green space at its heart.
Life settled into something soft and real.
Lazy Sunday mornings became ritual: coffee in bed, newspapers scattered, him reading aloud the ridiculous headlines while you sketched idly on his bare chest with your fingertip.
One crisp October afternoon, exactly six months after the wedding, you found him on the balcony, staring at the skyline with a small velvet box in his hand.
You stepped out behind him. "What’s that?"
He turned, sheepish smile tugging at his mouth.
"I know we’re already married" he said. "But the ring they gave you at the ceremony… it was beautiful, but it wasn’t us."
He opened the box. Inside was a simple platinum band, thin, unadorned except for a tiny, flawless emerald embedded flush into the metal. The exact shade of the dress you’d worn on your third secret date.
"I had it made" he said softly. "Wanted something that reminded me of the night I realized I was in love with you. Not the merger. Not the families. Just you."
Tears pricked your eyes. He took your left hand, slid the original wedding band off, replaced it with the new one.
"Will you marry me again?" he asked. "Not for them. For us. Whenever we’re ready. Small. Private. Real vows."
You looked at the ring, simple, perfect, then up at him.
"Yes" you whispered. "A thousand times yes."
He kissed you then, slow, deep, full of everything the first ceremony had lacked: choice, love, certainty.
Later that night, tangled in sheets that still smelled like him, you traced the new ring with your thumb.
"We built something better than they ever planned" you murmured.
He pulled you closer, lips brushing your temple.
"We built a home" he said simply. "And we’re just getting started."
Arranged marriage, strangers to lovers, fluff, smut
Serendipity: the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.
In a world bound by family expectations and corporate alliances, you and Mingyu are arranged into a marriage neither truly wants. Desperate for control, you begin meeting in secret, dates just for you away from expectations. What starts as reluctant negotiation quietly blooms into stolen glances, lingering touches and whispered confessions, until the line between duty and desire disappears completely.
Wc:~5.6k
Warnings: heavy family expectations, arranged marriage, slight angst/emotionnal vulnerability, smut, oral f receiving, nipple play, protected sex
Part 2
The afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of Café Lumière, casting warm golden patches across the wooden tables and mismatched chairs. It was one of those small, tucked-away spots in a quieter part of the city, far from the bustling downtown where anyone connected to your family might spot you. You'd chosen it deliberately: neutral ground, low foot traffic on a Tuesday and enough ambient chatter to make a serious conversation feel less like an interrogation.
You arrived ten minutes early, nerves buzzing under your skin like static. Your fingers toyed with the edge of your phone case as you claimed a corner table near the back, half-hidden by a tall potted fern. Black coffee sat untouched in front of you; you'd ordered it out of habit, but the thought of drinking anything right now made your stomach twist.
The marriage had been decided three weeks ago, announced over a tense family dinner that felt more like a board meeting than a celebration. Your parents: old-money entrepreneurs who'd built a modest but respected import-export business, had been quietly negotiating with the Kim family for months. The Kims were in a different league: real estate, luxury developments, a portfolio that spanned half the city's skyline. Your father's company supplied high-end fittings and materials; a merger through marriage would lock in exclusive contracts, stabilize supply chains, and elevate both families' status in elite circles.
You weren't consulted. Not really. There had been vague mentions of "a suitable match" and "future security," but the decision was presented as something done. "Mingyu Kim" your mother had said, sliding a photo across the table like it was a business prospectus. "Twenty-eight, heir to Kim Holdings. Tall, handsome, polite. You'll meet him soon enough."
You'd stared at the photo: sharp jawline, dark hair swept back casually, eyes that looked almost too kind for someone born into that kind of wealth. It hadn't helped. The idea of marrying a stranger, arranged like some relic from a past century, felt suffocating. You had a job you loved (graphic design at a small creative agency), friends, a life that was yours. The wedding date was already penciled in for four months from now.
So you'd done the only thing that felt like reclaiming any control: you'd messaged him privately through a burner app your cousin had once recommended for "discreet" family matters.
"Hi. This is Y/N. The one you're supposed to marry. Before we sign our lives away, can we at least talk? Without parents hovering?"
His reply came faster than expected.
"Kim Mingyu here. Yeah. I'd like that. Name a place and time. I'll be there."
No pretension, no corporate jargon. Just straightforward.
Now here you were, waiting.
The bell above the door chimed. You glanced up and there he was.
Mingyu Kim ducked slightly under the low doorway frame, all long limbs and effortless presence. He was taller than the photo suggested, easily 187 cm, maybe more, broad shoulders filling out a simple black hoodie and dark jeans. His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd run a hand through it on the way in, and a black cap pulled low partially shadowed his face. Even in casual clothes, he looked expensive: clean lines, good fit, the kind of understated quality that screamed money without trying.
He scanned the room, spotted you and offered a small, hesitant smile. It reached his eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that made him look younger, less like the heir apparent and more like someone genuinely nervous.
You lifted a hand in a half-wave. He wove through the tables toward you.
"Hi" he said, voice low and warm, a little rough around the edges like he hadn't spoken much today. "Y/N, right?"
"Yeah. Mingyu?"
He nodded, sliding into the seat across from you. Up close, he smelled faintly of cedarwood and fresh laundry. His hands: large, veined, surprisingly careful, rested on the table. He didn't fidget, but his thumbs brushed together once, betraying a flicker of anxiety.
"Thanks for coming" you said, breaking the silence before it could thicken. "I wasn't sure you'd agree to this."
"I wasn't sure you'd ask." He gave a small laugh, self-deprecating. "Honestly? I was relieved. The whole 'meet at a formal dinner with both sets of parents staring' thing sounded... intense."
You exhaled a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. "Tell me about it. My mom already has color schemes picked out."
He winced sympathetically. "Mine has venue lists. And guest counts. Like it's a corporate merger."
"It kind of is" you pointed out dryly.
His expression sobered. "Yeah. It is."
A barista called out an order nearby, giving you both a moment to breathe. Mingyu flagged her down politely and ordered an iced Americano, no sugar. You asked for a refill on your now-cold coffee, mostly to have something to do with your hands.
When she left, he leaned forward slightly. "So... how much did they tell you about me?"
"Enough to know you're the golden boy heir. Business degree, works in the family company, apparently good at everything." You paused. "And tall."
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "They always lead with the height. It's weird."
"It's accurate" you said, lips twitching despite yourself. "You had to duck coming in."
"Old building" he defended, but there was amusement in his eyes. "What about you? They told me you're... creative. Independent. Didn't want to be here any more than I did."
You raised an eyebrow. "They said that?"
"Not in so many words. But your dad mentioned you have a 'real job' and aren't interested in boardrooms." He shrugged. "Sounded like code for 'she's not thrilled about this.'"
"Fair." You traced the rim of your cup. "I'm a graphic designer. Freelance on the side. I like making things, logos, posters, album covers sometimes. It's not glamorous like real estate empires, but it's mine."
"Sounds better than spreadsheets and site inspections" he said sincerely. "I do like building things too, though. Not the creative part, the actual construction side. Visiting sites, seeing something go from blueprint to reality. It's... satisfying."
You studied him. This wasn't the arrogant chaebol son you'd braced for. He seemed grounded, almost earnest.The coffees arrived. He thanked the barista with a polite nod that made her smile a little too brightly. You noticed.
"So" you said once she was gone "why agree to this? The marriage, I mean. You could probably push back. You're the heir, they'd listen to you eventually."
He took a slow sip, considering. "I could. But... it's complicated. My dad's health isn't great. Heart issues. The board's been circling, waiting for any sign of weakness. Marrying into a stable partner company buys time, stability. For him, for the business." He met your eyes. "And honestly? I've dated. Casually. Nothing serious. Family always finds out, scares people off, or turns it into a headline. This... at least it's honest upfront. No pretending."
You nodded slowly. "My parents want security. The business has been stagnant. Your family's contracts would change everything. And they think..." You hesitated. "They think if I'm married off to someone 'suitable,' I'll stop being so... stubborn about independence."
Mingyu's gaze softened. "Are you stubborn?"
"Sometimes." You smiled faintly. "Mostly I just want a say in my own life."
"Same."
Silence settled again, but it wasn't uncomfortable this time. More like two people realizing they were on the same side of an absurd situation.
He fiddled with a sugar packet, then accidentally tore it open too fast. White granules scattered across the table. "Shit, sorry."
You laughed, the first real one since sitting down. "Smooth."
He groaned, grabbing napkins to sweep it up. "I'm usually better at this. I swear."
"First-date jitters?" you teased lightly.
His ears pinked. "Is this a date?"
"Secret pre-marriage negotiation?" you countered. "Close enough."
He grinned, sheepish but genuine. "Then yeah. Jitters."
You helped him clean up the mess, fingers brushing once. Neither of you pulled away immediately.
The conversation eased after that. You talked about stupid things first—favorite movies (he liked action but secretly watched rom-coms; you admitted to binge-watching cooking shows despite burning toast), worst family vacations, the time he tried to cook for his cousin and set off the smoke alarm.
Then it deepened.
He told you about the pressure of being the only child, the endless expectations. How he'd once dreamed of opening his own restaurant, something small, personal, but family obligations swallowed the idea whole.
You shared how you'd turned down a steadier corporate design job to keep your freedom, how your parents saw it as rebellion instead of passion.
Hours slipped by. The café filled, then emptied again. Sunlight shifted to late-afternoon amber.
Finally, Mingyu checked his watch. "I should go before someone recognizes me. Paparazzi love slow news days."
You nodded, suddenly reluctant. "Yeah. Me too."
He stood first, towering over the table. "This was... better than I expected."
"Same." You rose, meeting his eyes. They were warm, searching.
"Can we... do it again?" he asked quietly. "Before the big day. No parents. Just us figuring this out."
Your heart did a strange flip. "I'd like that."
He smiled, full, bright, the kind that made his eyes disappear into crescents. "Good. I'll text you."
As he walked out, cap pulled lower, you watched him go, feeling something shift inside you. Not love, not yet. But curiosity. Hope, maybe.
A week had passed since the café, seven days filled with tentative texts that started polite and quickly turned playful.
"Morning. Survived another board meeting?"
"Barely. Dad asked why I was smiling at my phone. Told him it was stock prices. Close enough."
"Smooth. What are you up to today?
"Thinking we should meet again. Somewhere fun. No suits, no pressure."
"Like...?"
"Aquarium? Weekday afternoon. Quieter. I can pretend I'm researching marine real estate for the family portfolio."
"You're ridiculous. But yes. Thursday?"
Thursday arrived crisp and overcast, the kind of weather that made staying indoors feel justified. You met Mingyu outside the entrance of the city's largest public aquarium, a sleek modern building with curved glass walls that reflected the gray sky. To minimize recognition, yours from occasional society-page mentions, his from being heir apparent, you'd both opted for low-key disguises: baseball caps (his black, yours navy), hoodies, sunglasses even though the sun was hiding.
He spotted you first, waving subtly from beside a ticket kiosk. As you approached, he pushed his cap up a little, revealing that easy smile that had started living rent-free in your head since the café.
"You look like you're about to rob the place" you teased, eyeing his all-black outfit.
"Says the one in a hoodie that says 'Don't Talk to Me Before Coffee'." He grinned, nodding at your chest. "Accurate?"
"Very." You adjusted your cap. "Ready to pretend we're normal people?"
"Desperately."
Tickets bought (he insisted on paying, waving off your protest with a quiet "Let me, please"), you slipped inside. The lobby was cool and dimly lit, the air carrying that faint salty tang of seawater. Few visitors wandered the halls, mostly parents with young kids and a couple of tourists. Perfect cover.
Mingyu led the way toward the main exhibits, his long strides slowing to match yours. "I Googled some facts last night" he admitted sheepishly. "Didn't want to look completely clueless."
You laughed softly. "Nerd."
"Guilty."
The first tanks glowed with soft blues and purples, schools of tiny neon tetras darting like living confetti. Mingyu stopped at one, crouching slightly to eye level with a particularly bold clownfish.
"They're braver than they look" he said. "Poke around anemones like they own the place."
You leaned in beside him, shoulders almost touching. "Kind of like you in boardrooms?"
He snorted. "Nah. I'm more like that pufferfish over there, big show, but mostly bluff."
You glanced where he pointed: a round, spiky ball floating serenely. "Cute bluff, though."
His ears tinted pink under the cap brim. Progress.
You moved deeper into the building, conversation flowing easier than before. He told you about a disastrous attempt to keep a betta fish in college ("It stared at me like I owed it money"), and you confessed your childhood dream of being a marine biologist before art took over. The aquarium's ambient soundtrack: gentle bubbles, distant whale calls audios, wrapped around your words like a buffer from the outside world.
Then came the tunnel.
A long acrylic passageway curved overhead and around, the massive main tank surrounding you on three sides. Sharks glided silently above, their shadows rippling across the floor. Rays skimmed past, wings undulating like slow-motion birds. Schools of silver fish flashed in synchronized turns. The blue light bathed everything in an otherworldly glow, making the space feel suspended, intimate.
You both stopped in the middle, heads tilted back.
"Wow" you breathed.
Mingyu's voice came low beside you. "Yeah."
For a minute, neither spoke. Just watched. A hammerhead cruised overhead, close enough that you could see the faint scars on its skin.
He shifted closer, arm brushing yours. This time it wasn't accidental. Neither of you moved away.
"I've never brought anyone here" he said quietly. "Not like this. Usually it's business dinners or charity galas. Never... just to look."
You turned your head, finding his profile illuminated in soft azure. "Why here, then?"
He exhaled slowly. "Felt safe. No reporters, no expectations. And..." He glanced at you, eyes dark in the low light. "I thought you'd like it. The colors. The quiet. Felt like something you'd draw."
Your chest tightened pleasantly. He'd thought about you. Not just logistics, the actual you.
"I would" you admitted. "I'd draw the way the light bends through the water. Or how the sharks look almost gentle when they're not hunting."
He smiled, small and real. "Show me sometime? Your sketches?"
"Maybe." You nudged his elbow lightly. "If you keep buying the tickets."
"Deal."
You lingered in the tunnel longer than necessary, walking its length twice. Hands brushed again, deliberate this time. Fingers hooked for a heartbeat before releasing, testing boundaries. When a group of schoolkids barreled through, giggling and pointing, Mingyu instinctively stepped in front of you, shielding without thinking. Protective. Sweet.
After the tunnel came the jellyfish exhibit, floating orbs pulsing like living lanterns in dark tanks. You stood shoulder to shoulder, mesmerized.
"Do you ever feel like that?" he asked suddenly.
"Like a jellyfish?"
"No. Like... drifting. Beautiful, but no real direction. Everyone watching, but no one really seeing."
You swallowed. "Sometimes. Especially lately. With the wedding stuff. Everyone has opinions, plans. I just want to... exist for a minute."
He nodded slowly. "Me too. The heir thing, it's loud. Always someone expecting the next move. Here, it's quiet. I can just be... me."
You looked at him then, really looked. The cap shadowed his face, but the vulnerability in his eyes was unmistakable.
"You're doing okay at being you" you said softly.
He met your gaze. "You're making it easier."
The admission hung between you, fragile and honest.
Eventually, you wandered out to the gift shop and café area. Outside the main exit was a small stand selling soft-serve and popsicles—nothing fancy, just colorful treats in the late-afternoon chill.
Mingyu bought two vanilla cones dipped in chocolate, handing you one with a flourish. "Peace offering for dragging you through fish facts all day."
You took it, licking a drip before it fell. "You didn't drag. I had fun."
He watched you for a second too long, then caught himself and looked away, smiling into his cone.
You found a bench near the entrance, away from the main path. Sat close enough that your thighs touched. Ate in comfortable silence punctuated by small talk: favorite flavors (both pearl loyalists), worst dates either of you had been on (his involved a girl who live-streamed the entire dinner; yours was a setup where the guy asked for your dad's business card mid-appetizer).
As the cones dwindled, he spoke again, quieter. "I didn't expect to look forward to this."
You turned. "The secret meetings?"
"All of it. Talking to you. Not performing." He paused. "I was ready to hate this arrangement. Brace for polite resentment. But you're... not what I thought."
"Good or bad?"
"Good." His voice dropped. "Really good."
Your heart thudded against your ribs. "Same."
A breeze stirred, carrying the faint ocean scent from inside. You shivered slightly.
He noticed. Without asking, he shrugged off his hoodie, revealing a plain gray t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and draped it over your lap. "Here. You're cold."
It was warm from his body heat, smelled like him: cedar, clean cotton, something indefinably comforting.
"Thanks" you murmured.
He didn't take it back.
When the cones were gone and the sky darkened to early evening, you both stood reluctantly.
"Next time?" he asked, hands in his pockets like he was trying not to reach for yours.
"Definitely." You smiled up at him. "But maybe somewhere warmer."
He laughed softly. "Deal."
The goodbye was a hug, longer than the café farewell, arms wrapping fully around each other. His chin rested briefly on your head; you felt the steady beat of his heart against yours.
As you pulled apart, he tugged his cap down again. "Text me when you get home safe?"
"I will."
He watched you walk toward the parking area until you turned the corner. Only then did he head the other way.
That night, your phone buzzed.
"Home safe?"
"Yeah. Still wearing your hoodie. It's cozy."
"Keep it. Looks better on you anyway."
You smiled into the dark, heart lighter than it had been in weeks.
The arrangement hadn't changed. The wedding date still loomed. But the dread had shifted, replaced by anticipation. By the quiet thrill of someone seeing you, really seeing you, and liking what they saw.
The city lights glittered like scattered diamonds far below as you stepped out of the elevator onto the rooftop of L'Étoile Noire, one of the city's most exclusive venues. Mingyu had chosen it deliberately: his family's holding company owned a minority stake, which meant guaranteed privacy, no walk-ins, no photographers lingering at the entrance, and a private booth already reserved under a discreet alias.
He waited just inside the glass doors, hands in the pockets of his tailored black suit. The fabric hugged his broad shoulders and long legs perfectly, the crisp white shirt underneath open at the collar by one button, enough to look effortlessly sophisticated without trying too hard. His dark hair was styled back but still had that soft, touchable wave you'd noticed at the aquarium. When he saw you, his expression shifted from polite anticipation to something warmer, unguarded.
You'd chosen a deep emerald green dress, sleeveless, fitted through the bodice, flowing into a subtle slit at the thigh. It caught the light as you moved, and from the way Mingyu's gaze lingered, starting at your face, dipping briefly, then returning to your eyes, you knew the effort had landed.
"Wow" he said quietly, stepping forward. "You look... incredible."
Heat crept up your neck. "You clean up well yourself. I almost didn't recognize you without the hoodie and cap."
He laughed softly, the sound low and genuine. "I figured I'd try to match the place. Come on, our table's this way."
He offered his arm. You took it, feeling the solid warmth of him through the suit jacket as he led you past the main dining area, sparse tonight, intimate lighting from string lights and candles, to a secluded corner booth enclosed by sheer curtains that fluttered gently in the evening breeze. The city sprawled out beyond the glass railing: twinkling towers, the river snaking silver under bridge lights, distant traffic humming like a lullaby.
The table was set for two: white linens, low candles, a single orchid in a slim vase. A bottle of chilled white wine already waited in an ice bucket.
Mingyu pulled out your chair. "I asked them to prepare your favorites based on what you've mentioned before. No pressure if you want to change anything."
You sat, touched. "You remembered I like seafood and hate mushrooms?"
"Every detail." He settled across from you, loosening his tie just a fraction. "I want tonight to feel... real. Not like another obligation."
The waiter appeared discreetly, poured the wine, and vanished again with a quiet promise to return when called.
You clinked glasses. The wine was crisp, floral, perfect.
"To secret dates before we're forced into the spotlight" you toasted lightly.
"To choosing this instead of running from it" he countered.
The first course arrived: seared scallops with a light citrus glaze, plated like art. Conversation started easy, recapping the aquarium, laughing about how he'd nearly tripped over a toddler chasing a toy shark. But as plates cleared and mains arrived (grilled sea bass for you, filet for him), the mood deepened.
He set his fork down midway through. "Can I be honest?"
"Always."
"I've been thinking about you constantly since last week." His voice was low, sincere. "Not just because of the arrangement. Because... you're easy to talk to. You make me laugh. And you see me, not the heir, not the portfolio. Just me."
Your fork paused. "I feel the same. I was so ready to resent this whole thing. Resent you, even. But you're thoughtful. Funny. Kind in ways that sneak up on you."
He smiled, small and almost shy. "Like when I spilled sugar at the café?"
"Exactly like that." You reached across the table, fingers brushing his knuckles. He turned his hand over immediately, palm up, lacing your fingers with his without hesitation.
The touch sent a quiet spark up your arm.
"I used to think arranged marriages were just cold transactions" he admitted. "But talking to you these past weeks... I started wondering if maybe it could be more. If we could make it more."
You squeezed his hand. "I've been wondering the same."
He exhaled like he'd been holding his breath. "Good. Because I'm falling for you. Not the idea of you, not the merger. You."
The words hung in the air, heavy and beautiful. Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he could hear it.
"I'm falling too" you whispered. "Harder than I expected."
The rest of dinner passed in a soft blur: shared bites, stories of childhood mischief (his involved sneaking into his father's office to "redecorate" with sticky notes; yours was convincing your art teacher you needed extra clay for a "very important" project), gentle teasing about his secret love for baking shows.
Dessert arrived: molten chocolate cake with fresh berries and a scoop of vanilla gelato. He fed you a spoonful, laughing when a bit of chocolate smeared your lip. His thumb brushed it away, lingering just a second too long.
By the time coffee came, the city lights had fully taken over the night sky. Mingyu paid discreetly, no fuss, no show, then stood, offering his hand again.
"Walk with me?" he asked. "Just around the rooftop. No rush to leave."
You took his hand. He led you to the railing, away from the table but still private. The breeze carried hints of his cologne: warm, woody, intoxicating up close.
He turned to face you fully, the city glow outlining his features. "I've wanted to do this properly since the café."
"Do what?"
"This."
He cupped your face gently with both hands, large palms warm against your skin and leaned down. The kiss started soft, tentative: lips brushing, testing. Then deeper as you sighed into it, hands sliding up his chest to grip his lapels. His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of wine and chocolate. One hand slipped to the small of your back, pulling you closer until bodies pressed together; the other threaded into your hair.
It wasn't rushed. It was deliberate, slow exploration, breaths mingling, a quiet hum of contentment from him when you parted for air only to kiss again.
When you finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, he whispered "I've been dying to do that."
"Me too" you breathed. "Since the tunnel at the aquarium, maybe."
He chuckled softly, nose brushing yours. "Took us long enough."
You stayed like that for long minutes, kissing lazily, hands wandering innocently over shoulders and waists, stealing the night air between confessions.
"I don't want this to just be before the wedding" he murmured against your lips. "I want it to be real. After, too. Every day."
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, dark, earnest, shining under the string lights. "Then let's make it real."
He kissed you again, slower this time, sealing the promise.
"Wanna come to my house?" He asked.
"Sure" you answered.
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chime, sealing you and Mingyu inside the small mirrored box that carried you upward to his penthouse's level. The city lights streaked past the glass wall in silent streaks of gold and white, but neither of you paid attention to the view.
Mingyu stood close, closer than necessary in the generous space, his suit jacket already unbuttoned, tie loosened and hanging crooked from his collar. His breathing was measured but deep, like he was trying to keep control of something rapidly unraveling. You could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with the night air that still clung to his clothes.
Your own pulse hammered in your throat. The kiss on the rooftop had been a promise; this ride was the beginning of keeping it.
He turned his head slightly, catching your eye in the mirrored reflection. The corner of his mouth lifted, just a fraction, just enough to make your stomach flip.
"You’re quiet" he murmured, voice rougher than usual.
"So are you."
His hand found yours, fingers threading together slowly. His thumb stroked over your knuckles once, twice. Then he lifted your joined hands and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your wrist.
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened directly into his private foyer, dark marble floors, low recessed lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the glittering skyline like a private movie screen. He didn’t bother with lights; the city glow was enough.
He tugged you forward gently. The moment the doors closed behind you, he turned, backing you against the nearest wall with careful but undeniable intent. His palms framed your face again, just like on the rooftop, but this time there was no hesitation.
He kissed you like he’d been starving for it. Deep, slow, hungry. Lips parted immediately, tongues sliding together in a rhythm that felt practiced even though it was brand new. You made a small, involuntary sound into his mouth, half sigh, half plea and he groaned in response, the vibration traveling straight through you.
His hands moved: down your neck, over your shoulders, tracing the bare skin of your arms before settling at your waist. He pulled you flush against him; you felt every hard line of his body, the unmistakable press of his arousal against your stomach.
You broke the kiss only long enough to gasp, "Bedroom?"
"Too far" he rasped, kissing along your jaw, down the column of your throat. "Want you now."
But even as he said it, he was already guiding you backward, through the open living area, past sleek furniture you barely registered, down a short hallway. His mouth never left your skin.
The bedroom door was already ajar. Moonlight and city light spilled across a massive bed with dark sheets. He kicked the door shut behind you without looking.
You reached for his tie first, yanking it free and tossing it somewhere. Then his jacket, shoulders shrugging it off as you pushed it down his arms. His shirt came next; your fingers fumbled the buttons until he laughed softly against your lips and helped, stripping it off in one fluid motion.
God, he was beautiful.
Broad chest, defined abs that flexed under your palms as you ran your hands over him. A faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. You traced it with your fingertips; he sucked in a sharp breath.
"Your turn" he whispered, voice wrecked.
He found the zipper at the back of your dress and drew it down inch by inch, knuckles grazing your spine. The fabric pooled at your feet. You stepped out of it, suddenly in only lingerie and heels.
Mingyu took one long, reverent look, eyes dark, pupils blown and exhaled shakily.
"You’re killing me" he said, almost to himself.
Then he was on his knees.
He kissed the soft skin just above the lace of your panties, open-mouthed and slow. His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive crease where leg met hip. When his tongue traced the edge of the fabric, you threaded your fingers into his hair and tugged.
"Mingyu-"
He looked up at you through dark lashes. "Tell me what you want."
"Everything."
A slow, wicked smile curved his lips.
He hooked his fingers into the sides of your panties and drew them down your legs, following the path with kisses: inner thigh, knee, calf. When they were off, he stood again, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct; he carried you the last few steps to the bed and laid you down like you were something precious.
He shed the rest of his clothes quickly: trousers, briefs, until he was bare above you. Thick, hard, flushed. The sight made your mouth go dry.
He crawled over you, caging you with his arms, and kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. His body settled between your thighs; the hot length of him pressed against your core, sliding through slickness without entering yet.
You arched up, seeking friction. He groaned into your mouth. "Patience, baby. Want to take my time."
But he didn’t make you wait long. He kissed down your body: collarbones, breasts (lingering there, tongue circling one nipple until you were whimpering), stomach, the dip of your waist. When he reached your core, he spread you open with gentle thumbs and looked up one last time.
"Beautiful" he breathed.
Then his mouth was on you.
Slow licks at first: broad, flat strokes of his tongue that made your hips jerk. Then he focused, circling your clit with precise, maddening pressure, sucking gently, humming when you cried out. Two long fingers slid inside you, curling just right, stroking in time with his tongue until your thighs trembled around his head.
You came hard, back arching, fingers twisting in the sheets, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.
He didn’t stop until you were shaking, oversensitive and boneless.
Only then did he crawl back up, kissing every inch of skin on the way. When he reached your mouth, you tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned into the kiss.
"Need you" you whispered against his lips. "Please."
He reached for the nightstand, tore open a condom packet with his teeth. Rolled it on with practiced ease.
Then he settled between your thighs again, the blunt head of him nudging at your entrance.
"Look at me" he said softly.
You did.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the entire time. When he was fully seated, hips flush to yours, he paused, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.
"You feel…" He swallowed hard. "So perfect."
You wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into the small of his back. "Move."
He did.
Slow at first, long, deep rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Then faster, harder, finding a rhythm that had you both gasping. His hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit in tight, perfect strokes.
You came again, sharper this time, clenching around him so hard he cursed under his breath.
"Fuck, gonna-" His rhythm stuttered. "Where-"
"Inside" you gasped. "Please."
He buried his face in your neck, thrust once, twice more, deep, desperate and came with a low, broken groan, hips jerking as he spilled into the condom.
For long moments neither of you moved, just heavy breathing, sweat-slick skin, hearts hammering against each other.
Eventually he eased out carefully, disposed of the condom, then returned with a warm cloth from the bathroom. He cleaned you gently: between your thighs, your stomach, before tossing it aside and pulling you into his arms.
You curled against his chest; he tugged the comforter over both of you. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back.
"I meant it earlier" he murmured into your hair. "I’m in love with you."
You tilted your head up, found his eyes in the dim light. They were soft, unguarded, shining.
"I love you too" you whispered.
His smile was small, almost shy. He kissed you: slow, sweet, nothing like the earlier hunger.
"I don’t want the wedding to just be a contract" he said quietly. "I want vows that mean something. I want this, us, every day. Not because we have to. Because we choose to."
You nodded, throat tight. "Then that’s what we’ll do."
He pulled you closer, tucking your head under his chin. One hand found yours under the covers, fingers lacing together.
you’ve been in love with him since you met, and you realize your feeling possibly aren’t one sided.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): romance, smut, mutual pining, friends to lovers
𝐚𝐮(𝐬): nonidol
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4k
𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cussing, a tiny bit of body insecurities, mc is chubby
𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected sex, big dick mingyu, creampie, marking, p in v intercourse, sleepy sex, body worship, he is very handsy, nipple/breast play, nicknames: baby, honey (hers) Gyu, baby (his)
𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ nsfw
𝐚𝐧: thank you @supi-wupi for beta reading. This is another story that @aeristudios helped me figure out. I wanna shout for @haologram & @100vern for helping me figure out my banner. Divider by @/saradika-graphics.
🎧: snooze - sza | delicate - taylor swift | say - keshi
Sometimes your family is the people you choose. After moving away from home for college to start a new life you found your new "family." The family you built consist of Seokmin, his now wife Mina, Wonwoo, Junhui, and Soonyoung. You all went to college together and stayed in the city after.
Seokmin and Mina went on to get married, Wonwoo and Mingyu moved in together, and you, Junhui, and Soonyoung became roommates. You all made decent money, but living alone in the city would be too damn expensive.
You're pretty sure you've been in love with Mingyu since the first time you met him. You shared a class with him and Seokmin freshman year and instantly became friends. You're the one who actually introduced Seokmin and Mina. She was your freshman year roommate, who instantly became your best friend.
Outing with friends normally end you and Mingyu attached at the hip. None of your friends tend to have personal boundaries but things with Mingyu have always been different. He’s always been extra clingy, when it comes to you.
Friday nights after work tend to be when the full friend group meets up. Mina recommended a soup spot on the upper side of town she wanted to try. Dinner was delicious and instead of heading home everyone is standing next to Mingyu and Seokmin's cars, hanging out.
You're leaning against the hood of Mingyu’s car. He’s standing right next to you with his arm thrown over your shoulder.
Soonyoung and Seokmin are animatedly telling you a story about some drunken night they shared recently. Mina looks embarrassed as her husband talks about his drunk shenanigans. Junhui is standing next to Mina, laughing. Wonwoo is paying attention but he keeps glancing over at you and his roommate.
Mingyu mindlessly leans down and kisses the top of your head.
Mina leans against Seokmin's car and lets out a yawn. It's been a long day, the whole group worked today and it's pushing midnight now.
"Seokmin, your wife is tired." Mingyu says as he pulls you closer to him.
Seokmin stops moving his hands and turns his attention to his wife. "Is it time to go home?" Seokmin asked, sounding like a child who just was told it’s time to stop playing.
"I think so." Mina laughs.
"What are you doing tonight?"Mingyu asks looking down at you.
"She should be going to sleep." Junhui says walking toward you. "She's supposed to meet up with her sister for lunch tomorrow."
"Your sister is in town?" Wonwoo asks.
"Yeah, she kinda blindsided me today."
"Are you going alone?" Your relationship with your sister is good. Just sometimes she asks questions that are a little bit pushy. "Probably."
Mingyu nudges your side a little. "I'll go with you."
"That would be nice." The idea of having someone with you sounds perfect. At least Mingyu can be a buffer between you and your sister.
"I'll text you details." You say, pulling away from him.
Everyone starts giving their hugs goodbye. Mingyu avoids you until you're the last person. He walks over and wraps his arms around you, for a bear hug. Your entire body feels warm as he holds you close. You're well aware your roommates and Wonwoo are watching you both closely.
He pulls back and places a wet kiss on your forehead. "See you in the morning."
Heading home you take your time doing your nightly skincare routine. You listen as Soonyoung and Junhui are making a bunch of noise in the living room. You say goodnight to them before heading off to your room.
You hear both the boys bedroom doors close. You take this time to read some of the book you’ve been trying to finish.
After finishing two chapters your phone lights up on the bed next to you. At first you think it’s one of your roommates talking about something. Instead you’re surprised to see see Mingyu’s name with a text alert.
1:32am Gyu: are you still awake?
1:33am honey: yes lol
1:33am Gyu: if I pick you up, would you come over and watch a movie?
1:34am honey: like right now?
1:34am Gyu: yes. I'll leave right now.
1:34am honey: I'm in my pajamas and I don't have a bra on.
1:35am Gyu: So what? Throw my hoodie on you stole from me and meet me outside in ten.
1:36am honey: okay. see you soon.
It's the middle of the night and if Junhui or Soonyoung hear you sneak out. If they find out you'll never live this down. Slowly you crawl out of bed, and start throwing stuff into a backpack to wear tomorrow. The last thing you need is to do the walk of shame in your pajamas.
Quietly you sneak out of your apartment. You rush downstairs. You find Mingyu waiting in his car outside. He looks so soft and gentle sitting there. He's dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants, and hoodie that's zipped half way up. Below is his beautiful golden skin peaking out. He's clearly opted out of wearing a shirt underneath.
"Hi," you awkwardly say, closing the door behind you.
"Hi, honey." God you love he calls you that. According to him, it's because you're as sweet as honey.
"Do the boys know I'm stealing you away in the middle of the night."
"Nope."
He gives you a smile, he shifts the car into drive. He reaches over resting his hand on your soft thigh. "Does Wonwoo know I'm coming over?"
He let out a breathless laugh. "No, but he won't be surprised. He was shocked I didn't ask you to come home after dinner."
"Wonwoo sure likes to observe us, doesn't he?"
Mingyu gently squeezes your thigh, "you could say that. Wonwoo just wants us both happy."
"Happy?" You try not to focus on the feeling of his hand resting on your thigh.
"Spending time with you makes me happy." A warmth takes over you. It feels nice to have him confirm he at least has some sort of feelings for you. “I also like to think I make you happy.”
There is a small beat of silence. “You do.”
Arriving at his and Wonwoo apartment, he grabs your hand the moment he's out of the car. He leads into the elevator, standing close to you, with his fingers still laced with yours.
Walking inside the apartment you immediately notice how quiet it is. You sit your backpack down on the floor next to the table the boys keep their keys on.
"Is Wonwoo going to be annoyed if we watch a movie right now?" You know Wonwoo is a night owl, but based on how quiet the apartment is, you think he might be asleep.
Mingyu let out a little laugh. "Wonwoo is busy getting laid. He's kinda seeing a girl, but hasn't told anyone. He literally left as soon as we got home tonight."
You wanna be annoyed Wonwoo is hiding a relationship from your friend group, but you don't blame him for keeping it on the down low. You love your friend group, but you're aware you all tend to be in each other's business all the time.
He releases your hand and kicks off his slides. He walks over and sits down on the couch. You're tempted to take off his hoodie, but you realize your pajamas don't cover much. You're suddenly very aware you're just in a tank top and small sleep shorts. You aren't wearing underwear or a bra underneath. Grabbing the remote he turns on Netflix and starts scrolling through. Slowly you move and sit down on the couch next to him. You put some distance between the two of you. You aren’t exactly sure if he wants to cuddle, or just hangs out.
"Anything particular you want to watch?"
"I'm not picky." You reach and grab the blanket that's folded and sitting on the arm of the couch.
Mingyu spends about five minutes searching through Netflix before deciding on a romance movie. The movie starts and Mingyu immediately has his arm over your shoulder, holding you close. This isn't the first time you've leaned against him while watching a movie, but this feels different.
About twenty minutes into the movie Mingyu pulls away from you. "Can we cuddle?" He asks.
You thought you were cuddling, but clearly this isn't enough. "Yes."
He leans back and you take this as your sign to lean in close to him. His arm rests around you as your head rest against him. His hand rests on your soft side. His hand slowly runs up and down your side, helping you relax even more.
The whole time you're watching the movie, you aren't even paying attention. You're more focused on the way Mingyu is touching you. The longer you lay here, the harder it becomes to even slightly pay attention.
"You keep yawning, are you ready for bed?"
"I don't wanna go home."
"I didn't plan on taking you home. We can cuddle in my bed, if you're okay with that?"
"Yea, that would be nice."
Pulling away from him, he leads you down the small hallway towards his room. You glance at Wonwoo's door, wondering if he'll be coming home. You've been in Mingyu's room many times before. His space is very neat and organized. His unmade bed lets you know he was laying in bed before he texted you. Standing at the foot of his bed you glance over and see him unzip his hoodie. His beautiful golden skin is on display. He's left standing there in just a pair of god forsaken sweatpants that are sitting low on his hips, a clear sign he’s wearing nothing underneath.
He lets out a low groan, as he stretches. He looks over at you with sleepy eyes, and a crooked smile. "Are you going to take my hoodie off?"
"I'm pretty exposed if I do." Your thin camisole below does barely anything to cover your boobs. Your nipples are already hard, so they'll be extremely visible through your shirt.
"I won't complain." He crawls to one side of the bed. He lays in his side looking at you.
The room is silent for a moment, before you pull his hoodie off and toss it on the floor. Instinctively you tug at the bottom of your small shorts, hoping they at least cover you.
"God you're so hot." He says to himself louder then he planned.
Hearing him call you hot, does something to your confidence. You crawl into bed next to him. You lay on your side facing him. Reaching out you run your finger down the bridge of his nose.
"You're so pretty." You say without even thinking.
"You know since I met you, I liked you." He says causally.
"What do you mean?"
"Ever since we had that class together back in school, I've had a crush on you." Thats definitely not what you expected for him to say. You always thought your crush on him was unrequited for the longest time.
"Gyu—"
"Yes, honey?"
"We've never even kissed sober." After being friends for basically a decade you have kissed most the people in your friend group drunk, some of them even sober. You and Junhui once made out to see what Soonyoung's reaction would be.
"We can change that." He leans in close. His nose brushes against yours.
"Mingyu are you sure?”
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life." He leans in pressing his lips to yours. The kiss starts out gentle. Mingyu moves his lips against yours slowly. His tongue drags across your bottom lips asking for permission.
His large hand rest on your cheek. Your lips move together as your tongues slide against each others. You moan into his mouth without meaning to.
He pulls back smiling. "That was better then I imagined." A huge smile pulls at your lips, you cover your face blushing. "You're so cute."
"Gyu."
"I hope you know, I'm going to want to kiss you all the time now." You would never say no to him kissing you. That single kiss you just shared, left your stomach filled with butterflies.
You let out a little yawn. It's like three in the morning at this point. You're absolutely exhausted but you can't get enough of him.
"Turn around baby, let me hold you." That's definitely a new nickname.
Laying in bed with him plastered behind you, you feel warm. His hand is resting on your soft stomach. Mindlessly he massages your tummy. You could get use to him hold you like this. This definitely isn't something normal friend do together.
"I've always wanted to do this." His voice is raspy as he speaks against your ear.
Mindlessly you push your back against his crotch. A low moan passes his lips. One hand grips your hip holding your ass against flush against him.
"Baby—"
"I'm sorry." Your voice is just above a whisper.
"God, I want you in every way." Rolling your hips back, you feel his cock start to harden against your ass. "We're supposed to be sleeping." He teases.
Grabbing his hand your place it on your barely covered breast. "Would you prefer we sleep?"
"No." His fingers toy with your pert nipple. He rolls his crotch against you. His large hand massages your breast. "Your pajamas are killing me."
"You probably don't wanna hear I'm not wearing underwear."
He presses his lips against your shoulder. "Fuck." His hand crawls down your soft stomach. "Baby, can I touch you?"
"Fuck, please."
His fingers dip below the waist band of your sleep shorts. He slides his fingers through you already wet folds. A soft gasp passes your lips. You've the idea of him touching you like this for years. He focuses on your sensitive clit. Instinctually you lift your leg hooking it over his thigh to give him better access to your core.
Quite whimpers and moans pass your lips. He's playing you like a fiddle. It's clear he knows his way around a woman's body. He dips two fingers into your core. The heel of his hand rubs against your clit, as he pumps his finger in and out of you.
"Gyu—" all the nerves in your body feel tense.
"Honey are you close?" Wordlessly you nod. Squeezing your eyes closed you're on the brink of falling part. He starts kissing your neck. Sensory overload kicks in, everything feels tense and suddenly the walls come crashing down. Your orgasm hits your hard. Your walls flutter around his fingers. He moans against your skin, rutting his cock against your ass.
"Can you go for more?" He asks.
"Please." You pull away enough to remove your shorts. Mingyu kicks off his sweats and throws them off the bed. "How do you want me?"
"Just like that." He lays back down on his side. You lay down in front of him again. He moves your leg so it's resting up on his. "Do I need a condom?"
"I'm in birth control and clean."
"I'm clean too." He slowly runs his very large lenght through your folds.
"Put it in." You push back against him.
He takes his time slowly pushing in, inch by inch. He's well aware he's large and you're going to need some time to adjust to his size. Reaching out you grip the sheet in front of you. The stretching feeling is absolutely intoxicating.
You squirm a little taking a moment to adjust to the pure size of him. No man you has ever been with, had been anywhere close to his size.
"You're so fucking tight." He groans.
"You're just huge."
He lets out a little laugh. "I can't get enough of you." His hand moves downs to where you're connected. He starts toying with your sensitive clit. You squirm a little again. "Baby, just relax."
"So big."
"If it hurts, we don't have to do this." He feels bad, he definitely should has made you came at least one more time before put it in.
"Just give me a minute. If you pull out, I'll cry." He can't help but smile at how desperate you sound.
Taking slow deep breaths you try to relax. You know as soon as your body gets used to the sheer size of him, you'll be absolutely cock drunk.
"It's the middle of the night, and this feels like a dream." Mingyu has quite literally been dreaming about this since college. He continues making lazy circles on your clit.
Pushing your hips back, you get a little bit of friction. You reach your pushing your top up, exposing your breast. With his other hand Mingyu starts playing with your breast.
"How are you feeling?" He asks.
"You can move. Just go slow."
He starts moving at a slow but deep pace. Mingyu has his hand touching anywhere he can possibly reach. With each deep thrust he's practically kissing your cervix. You wish you could back in time and pat your past self on the back for getting on birth control. The feeling of Mingyu completely bare inside you, feels incredible.
His cock curves up just enough, so that with his deep thrust he's touching just the right spot inside of you. With each thrust, he's brushing the spot inside of you, that has you seeing stars.
"Gyu—"
"Baby."
"You're so big." You whine. You're pushing your hips back against his.
Rolling your head back, you search for his lips. Leaning forward he strains his neck to reach your mouth. This kiss is sloppy. You're both drunk on lust, and chasing your orgasms.
His hand grips your breast. He pinches your nipple, earning a moan.
"Close." It's going to take very little to push you over the edge.
"I'm gonna cum." He groans against your lips.
The muscles in your stomach tighten, your release is getting closer and closer. With each tug on your nipple your orgasm is in the brink of cracking the ice.
"Please cum for me." He begs. His thrust are getting sloppier. He's trying his hardest not to cum before you.
Everything tenses like the tide pulling back before the wave crashes down. Your walls flutter around his massive length like a heart beat. Your eyes practically roll back in your head. Your orgasm triggers his. He groan as he slams his hips into yours one, two, three times. He feels you to the brim with his release. He grinds his hips into yours, helping both you ride out your highs.
"I have wanted to do that forever." His words are soft and he sounds dazed.
"I'm going to be sore tomorrow." You say with a little laugh.
Mingyu has no desire to pull out of you. He plans on staying snug inside of you for as long as you'll let him. After a while Mingyu gets up just long enough to clean you both up. He pulls your naked body pressed up against him. He teases you, playing with your nipples. "Can you always not wear a bar?"
"Unfortunately I need to wear a bra when go out."
"That's a shame. How about when we have sleep overs, you don't wear one."
"Is this going to be a on going thing?"
"Absolutely. I was thinking our friend group could use another couple." You can't help but smile. The idea of being in a relationship with Mingyu, is a literal dream.
He wraps his arms around you, holding you close to him. You fall asleep like this, comfortably in his arms.
The bright morning light shining through the curtains wakes you. You're still very naked wrapped up in Mingyu's strong arms.
You slowly pull away from Mingyu, trying not to wake up your bed buddy. He stirs and give you a sleepy smile. "Are you running away from me?"
"No I just need to check my phone and use the restroom."
Grabbing Mingyu's hoodie off the floor your pull it on, and grab your little sleep shorts. Your outfit is a definite sign of what just unfolded between you and Mingyu. Walking into the living room you find your phone on the coffee table. You see a slew of missed calls and texts from your roommates. Maybe you should have left a note, telling them you were going out. Opening your roommate chat you're instantly flooded with new messages from both boys.
7:04am Soonyoung: Where the fuck are you?
7:45am Jun: dude look at her damn location!
7:47am Soonyoung: does your location say Mingyu and Wonwoo apartment?!
7:48am Jun: when the hell did you leave?
7:49am Soonyoung: oh my god they're FINALLY fucking.
7:55am Jun: our beloved roommate honey?! You have some explaining to do.
8:00am Soonyoung: you have until 10am before we start making phone calls to get answers. Don't test us. We will call Wonwoo.
Staring at your phone you're trying your hardest not to laugh. You should have know they would figure out you're with Mingyu.
9:32am honey: I'm fine, I'm with Mingyu.
9:33am Soonyoung: is it safe to say he fucked you?
9:33am Jun: she went to his house in the middle of the night. What do you think?
9:45am honey: I don't think you need to know what we did.
9:45am Soonyoung: He definitely put her through the mattress.
9:46am Jun: are you able to walk today?
9:47am Soonyoung: you've seen his dick, she's not walking today lol.
9:47am honey: when have you seen gyu's dick?
9:49am Soonyoung: when he went skinny dipping at Seokmin bachelor party lol.
9:50am Jun: when are you coming home?
9:52am honey: ya'll can chill out. I'll be home tonight.
9:53am Soonyoung: have fun getting dicked down some more lol.
The front door opens and in walks Wonwoo. He's still in his clothes from last night, and his fluffy hair is disheveled. "Well well well, look who spent the night."
"I'm not the only one who got laid." You narrow your eyes at him teasing him.
"Touché." He sets his keys on the table next to the door. "I see Mingyu finally made a move."
"Yeah."
Mingyu walks out of his room in just a pair of tight, boxer-briefs. He scratches the back of his neck smiling. "Morning Wonwoo."
"So you guys clearly had sex?" Wonwoo says following Mingyu into the kitchen.
"Yep, we're together now." Mingyu says it so casually.
"I don't think anyone in the friend group is surprised."
It turns out they weren't. You and Mingyu went to lunch with your sister, where Mingyu proudly introduced himself as your boyfriend. By the time you got home, your whole friend group was aware of what had unfolded between you and Mingyu. Your huge friend group chat was blowing up. Mingyu and you sat in your room looking at your crazy group chat.
6:03pm Mina: how the hell am I last to know you two got together?
6:05pm Soonyoung: bro you and Seokmin are the only ones who don't live with one of them.
6:04pm Mina: how did my husband know before me?
6:05pm Jun: Soonyoung has a big mouth that's how.
6:07pm Wonwoo: I only know because I found honey in my living room basically naked.
6:07pm Seokmin: naked?!
6:08pm honey: I WASNT naked. I was in my pajamas.
6:09pm Gyu: she wasn't naked. Ya'll need to chill. We're together, like officially. Stop being weird about it.
Mingyu grabs your phone and locks it. He tossed both yours phones on the other side of the bed. "Turns out we're very official now."
You instantly smile. Leaning forward pressing your lips to his, for a heated kiss. "super official." You say between pecks.
Turns out that boy you met in college you fell in love with, was in love with you the whole time.
an: I’m quite tempted to make a little series of connecting stories with this little friend group. Incase anyone was curious to what Wonwoo is up to in this story.
he doesn’t even pretend to be normal when he comes home that day.
the door barely closes behind him before mingyu’s arms are around you, long and warm and a little desperate, like he’s been holding himself together with duct tape and coffee all day just to get back to this exact moment. his face disappears into your neck, a deep breath pulled from somewhere low in his chest.
“missed you,” he mumbles, voice rough, clingy already. not even hello.
you laugh softly, fingers immediately finding his hair, scratching at his scalp the way you know makes his shoulders drop. he melts into you like it’s muscle memory. like he’s been touch starved all day and you’re the only thing that makes it stop.
he follows you everywhere after that. literally everywhere.
you go to the kitchen, he’s behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder. you reach for a glass, he presses a kiss to the side of your neck. slow. lingering. affectionate in that way that feels heavier than lust.
“gyu,” you murmur, smiling. “i’m just getting water.”
“i know,” he says, kissing you again anyway. “still.”
when you sit on the couch, he immediately curls into you, too big for the space but refusing to adjust. his head ends up in your lap, legs stretched out, one hand gripping your thigh like an anchor. your fingers slide back into his hair and he lets out the softest sound, barely there, but it makes your chest ache.
he closes his eyes. fully gives in.
“don’t stop,” he whispers. “please.”
you don’t.
your nails trace lazy lines against his scalp, sometimes scratching, sometimes smoothing his hair back. he shifts closer, until his forehead presses into your stomach, until his fingers tighten in the fabric of your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
every few minutes, he looks up at you.
not to say anything. just to check. just to see you there.
you catch him staring once, eyes soft, mouth parted, thumb rubbing absent circles into your knee.
“what?” you ask quietly.
he shrugs, leaning up to press a kiss to your lips. not rushed. not hungry. just… needed.
his kisses are like that all night. soft, clingy, a little needy around the edges. he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your nose. presses his lips to your temple when you laugh. buries his face in your neck again when you sigh.
at some point, you both end up half-lying on the couch, his body draped over yours, heavy and warm. his head tucked under your chin, your arms around him. he fits there like he belongs. like he’s been craving this exact position all day.
“today sucked,” he admits quietly.
your hand moves to his back, slow circles, grounding. “yeah?”
he nods. “people everywhere. noise. cameras. no touching.” a pause. then, softer, “no you.”
that does something to you.
you tilt his face up and kiss him again, deeper this time, but still gentle. his hand slides up your side instinctively, like his body knows before his brain does. he kisses you back with a quiet intensity, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling.
when you pull away, he follows, forehead pressed to yours.
“stay like this,” he murmurs. “just… hold me for a bit.”
“i am,” you promise.
later, in bed, he’s even worse. clingier. somehow closer.
he wraps himself around you completely, arms and legs tangled, nose pressed into your hair. every time you move, even slightly, he tightens his hold, half-asleep but still possessive in the softest way.
your fingers trace his arm. his back. his shoulder.
he kisses your shoulder lazily. then your collarbone. then nothing—just rests his lips there, breathing you in.
“you’re my favorite place,” he whispers, voice sleepy and honest.
you smile into the dark, heart full, arm snug around his waist.
he relaxes after that. finally. like his body can rest now that it knows it’s safe, warm, touched, loved.
Summary: Chris has become a spoiled brat when it comes to washing his hair.Ever since you did it for him that one time after commenting about how dry and fried it looked, he’d made you his personal hairdresser. He’s grateful really, his curls have never looked better and he even now appreciates his curly hair more. However, what he really appreciates more, are your tetas all up in his face whenever you take care of his hair.
Warnings: bang chan x f.reader, friends to ???, smut! mdni!, kissing, oral(m&f.rec), sex on the bathroom counter, unprotected sex(this is fiction,don’t be stupid in real life), Chris calls you nena like it’s your government name, slightly questionable hair care routine, lowkey munch/perv!Chris, Chris has a slick mouth,some dirty talk and teasing,some hair pulling, there’s some plot somewhere in there, curly haired Chris supremacy because I refuse to shut up about it, may have missed something as usual
W.C: 7.8k
Chris had never been particularly fond of his curly hair, often opting to straighten it since it was easier to manage and deal with. The constant heat styling and bleaching had become routine; a small price to pay for the convenience of low-maintenance mornings and predictable styling. That changed, however, when he met you.
You took genuine pride in your curls and your hair care routine, no matter how long or expensive it was. He’d watch in fascination as you worked through each step with the precision of a scientist and the care of an artist—leave-in conditioner(not always), curl creams and moisturizers,defining brushes, defining gels, diffusing, oils amongst other things he definitely forgot. You spoke about porosity and protein moisture balance like they were actually important and somehow, you made him believe they were.
He remembers the first time he’d let you wash and style his hair. He’d been at your place, running your fingers through it absently while you watched a movie together, when you’d suddenly sat up and declared that his hair felt “absolutely fried” from all the bleaching and straightening. Before he could protest, you’d already pulled him into the bathroom, armed with an arsenal of products and unwavering determination.
That first experience had been revelatory. The way your fingers had massaged his scalp, the careful attention you’d paid to every strand, the genuine excitement in your eyes when his natural curl pattern started to emerge—it had been intoxicating. Needless to say, Chris had become thoroughly spoiled after that.
Now, whenever his hair needed a breather or some pampering, you’d become his personal hairdresser. He’d show up at your door with that boyish smile and puppy-dog eyes, asking if you had time for a “quick wash,” though you both knew there was nothing quick about your process.
Not that you were complaining. You hadn’t paid for your own hair care products in the longest time and that was entirely because Chris insisted on covering the costs. “If I’m benefiting from them too, I should pay,” he’d argued, waving away your protests as he added yet another expensive curl cream to the online cart. The arrangement had quickly evolved into him replacing your products before you even ran out, his bathroom slowly accumulating its own collection that mirrored yours.
It’s what has you in your current situation; standing in his bathroom with his head leaned back over the sink as you work shampoo through his dark curls. Water runs through your fingers as you massage his scalp in slow, deliberate circles, working the product into a luxurious lather. His hair is longer now than when you first met, the curls springy and healthy after months of proper care.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you chide, catching his gaze fixed upward. “I told you to close your eyes because you always get soap in them.”
“I’m looking at your tiddies if I’m being honest.” The corner of his mouth quirks up in an unapologetic smirk, his eyes still very much open and not at all focused on anything resembling your face. “You don’t really expect me to keep my eyes closed for long when they’re all up in my face, do you?”
Heat rushes to your cheeks as you realize the somewhat compromising position; you leaned over him, the neckline of your shirt offering a view you hadn’t considered when you’d started this whole operation. You flick water at his face in retaliation.
“Christopher!” you gasp, trying to sound scandalized despite the laugh threatening to escape. “You’re impossible. Close your eyes or I’m going to get soap in them on purpose.”
“Worth it,” he declares shamelessly, though he does finally let his eyes flutter closed, that self-satisfied grin still playing on his lips. “But for the record, this is my favorite part of wash day.”
“Getting your hair washed?”
“Having you take care of me,” he corrects, his voice softer now, more sincere. “Though the view doesn’t hurt.”
You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it but you can’t quite suppress your smile as you continue working the shampoo through his curls, your touch perhaps a bit more tender than before. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“And that I pay for your products,” he adds helpfully.
“That too,” you agree and his quiet laughter vibrates through your fingertips where they rest against his scalp, warm and familiar and entirely too comfortable with making your heart skip beats.
“You’re still staring, Christopher.”
The use of his full name makes his grin widen rather than diminish. He doesn’t even pretend to look apologetic.
“You’re pretty.”
The simple statement, delivered with such casual sincerity, makes your breath catch for just a moment. You try to recover quickly, focusing intently on working the shampoo through a particularly stubborn section of curls near his temple.
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” you manage, though your voice comes out softer than you intended, betraying the effect his words have on you.
“Are your lips as soft as they look?”
Your fingers pause in his hair as you look down at him, soap suds forgotten. His eyes are already on you; not wandering anymore but fixed with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. There’s something different in his gaze now, something that transforms the playful banter into something heavier, more charged. The bathroom suddenly feels smaller, warmer, the sound of running water fading into background noise.
“You’re teasing me,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers slowly start back massaging but it’s almost automatic now, your mind entirely focused on the way he’s looking at you.
But he’s still staring; not at your chest anymore but at your lips with an attention that feels almost tangible. His tongue darts out to wet his own lips unconsciously, and you track the movement despite yourself.
“I’m really not,” Chris replies, his voice lower now, rougher. There’s no trace of his earlier playfulness. “I’ve been wanting to know for a while now, actually.”
The confession hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. Water drips from his hair, running down the side of his face but neither of you move to wipe it away. Your hands are still buried in his curls, his head still tilted back over the sink but the position that seemed so innocent moments ago now feels intimate in an entirely different way.
“Chris…” you start, though you’re not sure what you’re planning to say—a warning, an encouragement, something to break the tension or maybe give in to it.
“Can I?” he asks and there’s a vulnerability in the question that makes your heart stutter. “Kiss you, I mean. I’ve been thinking about it every time you do this. Every time you touch my hair, every time you get close, every time you smile at me when my curls turn out good.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “Actually, I think about it pretty much all the time.”
Your breath hitches. The bathroom feels impossibly warm now, steam from the running water curling around you both, or maybe that’s just the heat of the moment. His eyes search yours, patient despite the wanting written clearly across his features.
“You still have shampoo in your hair,” you point out weakly, even as your hands slide down from his curls to cup his face, your thumbs brushing along his cheekbones.
His smile is soft, hopeful. “I don’t care.”
“It’s going to get everywhere…”
“I really don’t care,” he repeats and there’s such certainty in his voice that you can’t help but believe him.
You lean down slowly, giving him every opportunity to change his mind, to laugh it off as a joke. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts his head slightly from the sink, meeting you halfway with an eagerness that makes you smile against his lips just before they touch.
The kiss is soft, tentative—a question and an answer all at once. His lips are warm and gentle against yours, moving with a carefulness that makes your chest ache. One of his hands comes up to cup the back of your neck and you can’t even bring yourself to care about the mess.
When you pull back, it’s only barely, your forehead resting against his as you both breathe unevenly. His eyes flutter open, dark and warm and full of something that looks a lot like wonder.
“Softer,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking along your jaw. “Definitely softer than they look.”
You laugh, the sound breathy and a little unsteady. “You’re going to get soap in your eyes after all.”
“Worth it,”
Somehow you’ve moved—or been moved—from standing over the sink to straddling him on the computer chair he’d dragged in from his bedroom earlier, claiming he wanted to be comfortable during the “long process.” Your fingers are still buried in his shampoo-lathered hair, working through the curls more on instinct than conscious thought now, while his hands have found their home on the curve of your ass, holding you firmly against him.
The kiss starts slow, almost sweet—a gentle exploration of lips and breath but it doesn’t stay that way. Chris’ fingers flex against you, pulling you closer and you respond by pressing down into his lap, feeling the growing evidence of his interest beneath you. The small noise he makes against your mouth sends heat pooling low in your belly.
His tongue traces the seam of your lips, requesting entry and you grant it without hesitation. The kiss deepens, turns hungry. Your fingers tighten in his hair and he groans; whether from the scalp massage or the kiss or the way you’re grinding down against him now, you’re not sure. Probably all three.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth when you pull back for air, his pupils blown wide, lips already kiss-swollen and wet. His hands slide up your sides, under your shirt, palms hot against your skin. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
“Show me,” you challenge and his eyes darken further.
He kisses you again, harder this time, all teeth and tongue and desperation. One hand tangles in your hair while the other grips your hip, guiding you to rock against him in a rhythm that has you both panting. You can feel him hard and thick beneath you, the friction even through layers of clothing making your head spin.
Your hands slide from his hair down his neck, his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex as he holds you. Soap suds transfer onto his shirt, onto your arms, neither of you caring about the mess. His mouth leaves yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, finding that sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you gasp and arch into him.
“Chris,” you whimper and the sound of his name seems to undo something in him.
He sucks a mark into your neck, his teeth grazing the skin before his tongue soothes the sting. Your hips roll against him with more urgency now, chasing friction and his grip tightens almost to the point of pain—grounding and possessive and perfect.
“You feel so good,” he groans against your throat, his breath hot and ragged. “So fucking good and we’re not even—” He cuts himself off with another kiss, this one filthy and demanding, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes you clench around nothing.
Your fingers find the hem of his shirt and slip beneath it, nails dragging up his abs, feeling them contract under your touch. He hisses against your mouth, his hips bucking up involuntarily and the pressure against your core makes you moan.
“Want you,” he pants, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to maintain some semblance of control. “Been wanting you so fucking bad.”
You grind down harder, deliberate and his control visibly frays. His hands slide to your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave marks, encouraging the movement. The chair creaks beneath you with the motion and some distant part of your brain registers that you’re making a complete mess; soap dripping from his hair onto both of you, water spots on your shirt, the whole situation absolutely ridiculous.
But then Chris’ mouth finds yours again, his tongue sliding deep and you forget to care about anything else. One of his hands moves between your bodies, palming himself through his sweats before his fingers find the button of your jeans—
“Wait,” you gasp, pulling back with what feels like superhuman effort. You’re both breathing hard, lips swollen, pupils dilated. His hand freezes where it is. “Your hair.”
He blinks at you, looking dazed and thoroughly debauched. “What?”
“The shampoo,” you manage, your voice wrecked. “I need to rinse it out before it dries. And we haven’t even done conditioner yet.”
For a moment, he just stares at you like you’ve spoken another language. Then he laughs, the sound breathless and slightly hysterical. “You’re thinking about my hair care routine right now?”
“I’m always thinking about hair care,” you counter, though you make no move to get off his lap just yet. “And you dragged me in here to wash your hair, so we’re finishing what we started.”
His hands slide up your back, still under your shirt, his touch possessive even as his expression turns playful again. “We can finish other things after?” He nips at your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s already sensitized from his earlier attention.
The promise in his voice makes heat flare through you again. “After,” you agree, finally climbing off his lap on unsteady legs. “Now lean back over the sink before I have to clarify your hair all over again.”
He groans but complies, adjusting himself obviously in his sweats before leaning back over the sink. The outline of him is impossible to miss and you watch his hand linger there for just a moment, applying pressure before he forces himself to grip the arm of the chair instead. “You’re cruel,” he informs you, tilting his head back under the running water.
“And you’re about to have the best conditioned curls of your life,” you reply, trying to ignore how your hands shake slightly as you begin rinsing the shampoo away, white suds swirling down the drain. Your fingers work through his hair methodically, making sure to get every trace of product out. “So stop complaining and maybe I’ll show you what else my mouth can do.”
The words hang in the steamy air between you and you feel rather than see the way his entire body goes taut. His hands grip the armrest of the chair so hard his knuckles go white and when he speaks, his voice is strained.
“You can’t just say shit like that and expect me to stay still.”
“I expect you to stay still because you want your hair to look good,” you counter, your fingers working through his curls with practiced efficiency, even as your heart races. “And because you know good things come to those who wait.”
“I’ve been waiting,” he grumbles, but there’s heat in his voice rather than real complaint. “Feels like I’ve been waiting forever.”
The water runs clear, all traces of shampoo finally gone but you keep rinsing, taking your time, making him wait just a little bit longer. Your fingers massage his scalp in slow, deliberate circles and you’re rewarded with a low groan that he doesn’t quite manage to suppress.
“That’s not fair,” he mutters, his eyes still closed, though whether it’s to keep water out or because he’s trying to maintain his composure, you’re not sure.
“What’s not fair?”
“You know what you’re doing to me.” His voice is rough, edged with frustration and want. “You’re dragging this out on purpose.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” you reply innocently, even as your fingers trail down to the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly. “I’m just being thorough.”
His hips shift against the chair and you know he’s seeking friction, trying to relieve some of the pressure. The knowledge that you’re affecting him this much sends a thrill through you.
When you finally—finally—reach for the conditioner, your movements are deliberately slow. You pump the product into your palm, the soft scent of shea butter and coconut filling the bathroom and take your time warming it between your hands.
“Are you serious right now?” His eyes open, fixing on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “You’re really going to make me sit through the entire routine?”
“You asked me to wash your hair,” you remind him, beginning to work the conditioner through his curls, starting at the ends like you always do. “And I’m going to do it properly.”
“I’m starting to regret that decision,” he says, but his eyes flutter closed again when your fingers reach his scalp, working the product in with the same methodical care you always use.
“Liar,” you murmur, leaning closer. Your breath ghosts across his ear and you feel him shiver. “You love this.”
“I love you touching me,” he corrects, his voice dropping lower. “I love your hands in my hair. I love the way you’re looking at me right now, like you want to devour me but you’re making yourself wait.”
Your hands pause for just a moment before continuing their work. “And what if I do want to devour you?”
His eyes snap open, dark and heated. “Then stop torturing me with hair care and do it already.”
“Patience,” you chide, though your own voice has gone breathy. You work the conditioner through another section of curls, your movements perhaps a bit less steady than before. “Good curls require time and attention.”
“So do I,” he counters and there’s a hint of a whine in his voice that makes you smile despite the heat pooling in your belly.
You let the conditioner sit, your fingers playing idly with his curls, no longer pretending there’s a technical reason for the touch. His eyes track your every movement, watching the way your hands move through his hair, the way your teeth catch your lower lip in concentration.
“You’re killing me,” he says quietly and this time there’s no humor in it, just raw honesty. “Standing there looking like that, touching me like this, saying things that make me want to throw you over my shoulder and—”
“And what?” you prompt, your fingers stilling in his hair.
He holds your gaze, something challenging flickering in his expression. “And make good on every promise in that pretty mouth of yours.”
Heat floods through you at his words, at the way he’s looking at you like he’s two seconds away from doing exactly that. The air between you feels charged, electric, heavy with anticipation.
“Let me rinse this out,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “And then we’ll see about those promises.”
“How long does it need to sit?” he asks, and there’s definitely a whine in his voice now.
You glance at the bottle, then back at him with a smile that you know is pure wickedness. “Five to seven minutes.”
The groan he lets out is so pained, so genuinely frustrated, that you almost take pity on him. Almost.
Instead, you lean down, bringing your face close to his, your lips barely an inch from his own. “Tick tock, Christopher,” you whisper, and then you pull back, leaving him staring after you with an expression caught somewhere between agony and anticipation.
You make a show of washing your hands, of checking your phone for the time, of doing absolutely anything except acknowledging the way his eyes bore into you. Every second stretches out, thick and heavy with tension, and you can practically feel the restraint it’s taking for him to stay still.
“Time’s up,” you finally announce and the speed with which he tilts his head back over the sink is almost comical.
Your fingers return to his hair, working out the conditioner with the same care and attention you’ve shown throughout the entire process. But this time, there’s an urgency underlying your movements, a barely contained anticipation that matches the tension radiating from him.
The conditioner rinses away, leaving his curls soft and perfectly defined beneath your fingertips. You run your hands through one more time, making absolutely sure there’s no product left, before reaching for a towel.
“Done?” he asks and his voice is so hopeful, so desperate, that you can’t help but laugh.
“Almost.” You wrap the towel around his hair, gently squeezing out excess water. “Just need to—”
But before you can finish the sentence, he’s standing, turning, backing you against the bathroom counter. His hair is still wrapped in the towel, water droplets running down his neck and he’s never looked more beautiful than he does right now; thoroughly disheveled and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.
“Hair’s done,” he says, his voice rough. “Now, about those promises…”
“Chris, I still need to add products and dry—”
“Turn around.”
His voice has dropped to something darker, more commanding and it sends a shiver down your spine despite the warmth of the bathroom. You hesitate, your hand still holding the towel wrapped around his head.
“Chris—”
“What’d I just say, nena?”
The endearment rolls off his tongue with an edge that makes your knees weak. His hands find your hips, firm and insistent, and suddenly you’re being guided to turn, to face the mirror above the sink. Your breath catches as you meet his eyes in the reflection—dark, heated, filled with intent.
“Your hair—” you try again but your protest sounds weak even to your own ears.
“Will still be there in ten minutes,” he finishes for you, stepping closer until his chest is pressed against your back, until you can feel every line of him against you. His hands slide from your hips to splay across your stomach, holding you in place. “Right now, I need you to stop talking about my hair and start making good on what you promised me.”
His lips find the side of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat and your head tilts back automatically, giving him better access. In the mirror, you watch his hands move up your body, watch the way your own breath quickens, the way your pupils dilate.
“I didn’t promise anything,” you manage, though your voice comes out breathy and unconvincing.
“No?” His teeth graze your earlobe, and one hand slides higher, fingers ghosting just beneath the swell of your breast. “So you weren’t suggesting that your mouth could do other things? Because I’ve been thinking about that—about you on your knees for me—for a while now.”
Heat floods through you, pooling low and insistent. Your hands grip the edge of the counter, knuckles going white.
“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against your ear, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror. Despite the command in his voice, despite the way his hands are mapping your body like he’s memorizing it, there’s a question there. Consent wrapped in dominance. “Tell me you want me as much as I want you.”
You hold his gaze in the reflection, see the want and the restraint warring in his expression. The towel is still wrapped around his hair, slightly askew now and there’s something absurdly endearing about it; this moment of raw desire interrupted by hair care, now resuming with even more intensity.
“I want you,” you breathe and watch the way his eyes darken further, the way his grip on you tightens. “I want this.”
“Good,” he says, his voice rough with satisfaction. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, turning your face toward him so he can capture your lips in a kiss that’s all heat and promise. “Because I’m done waiting.”
When he pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. His thumb traces your lower lip, his eyes following the movement with rapt attention.
“Now,” he says, his voice dropping even lower, “get on your knees for me, nena. Show me what that pretty mouth can do.”
The command sends liquid heat straight through you. Your legs feel unsteady as you turn to face him fully, his hand falling away from your jaw but his eyes never leaving yours. There’s something intoxicating about the way he’s looking at you; like he’s been starving and you’re the first meal he’s seen in days.
Slowly, deliberately, you sink down to your knees on the bathroom mat. The tile is cool through the fabric but you barely notice, too focused on the way his breath stutters, the way his hand reaches out to brace against the counter like he needs the support.
From this angle, he’s overwhelming. You’re eye-level with the very obvious bulge straining against his grey sweats, the fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide how affected he is. Your mouth waters at the sight and when you look up at him through your lashes, you find him staring down at you with an expression that’s pure hunger.
“Fuck,” he breathes and the rawness in his voice makes you clench. His free hand comes up to pull the towel from his hair, tossing it carelessly aside. Damp curls fall around his face, messy and perfect and he’s never looked better. “You look so good like this. Been dreaming about this.”
“Yeah?” You lean forward, pressing your palms against his thighs, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch. “Tell me what you’ve been dreaming about.”
His hand moves to your hair, fingers threading through it, not pushing but holding a promise of control. “You really want to know?”
“Every detail,” you say, your hands sliding higher, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats.
He groans, hips shifting forward involuntarily. “I think about this every time you touch my hair. Every time you lean over me, every time your fingers massage my scalp…I imagine them somewhere else. I imagine your mouth on me, those pretty lips wrapped around my cock while I watch in the mirror.”
Your breath catches at his words, at the explicit honesty of them. You look up at him, finding his eyes blazing, his jaw tight with restraint.
“I think about how good you’d look with tears in your eyes because I’m too deep but you take it anyway because you want to make me feel good,” he continues, his voice getting rougher with each word. “I think about how sweet you’d sound choking on it, how pretty you’d be when I come down your throat.”
“Chris,” you breathe and you’re not sure if it’s a protest or encouragement or just his name torn from you by the sheer want his words inspire.
“Too much?” he asks and despite the dominance in his voice, there’s genuine concern there too.
You shake your head, your fingers tightening on his waistband. “Not enough. I want it all.”
Something in him breaks at that, what little restraint he’d been clinging to snapping like a thread pulled too tight. His hand tightens in your hair, not painful but firm, guiding.
“Then take them off,” he commands, his voice steady despite the way you can see his chest heaving. “And show me how good you can be for me.”
Your hands tremble slightly as you pull at his sweats, dragging them down his hips along with his boxers. He springs free, thick and hard and already leaking, and the sight of him makes your mouth water. He’s bigger than you expected, flushed and pretty, and you can’t help but lean forward, pressing a kiss to his hip, then lower, teasing.
“Don’t tease,” he warns, his grip in your hair tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle. “You’ve made me wait long enough.”
You look up at him, holding his gaze as you finally—finally—wrap your hand around him. He’s hot and heavy in your palm and the sound he makes when you stroke him once, twice, is absolutely obscene.
“Fuck, yes,” he hisses, his free hand bracing harder against the counter. “Just like that.”
But you want more than that. You want to see him fall apart, want to reduce him to nothing but sensation and need. So you lean forward, maintaining eye contact and drag your tongue along the underside of his length, base to tip, feeling him pulse against your lips.
“Holy shit,” he gasps, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. “Your mouth—”
You cut him off by taking him in, wrapping your lips around the head and sucking gently. The taste of him floods your tongue—salt and skin and pure Chris—and you moan around him, the vibration making him curse again.
“Look at you,” he groans and you realize he’s angled himself so he can see in the mirror; can watch you on your knees for him, can watch the way your lips stretch around him. “So fucking perfect. Taking me so well.”
Encouraged by his words, you take him deeper, relaxing your throat, using every trick you know. Your hand works what you can’t fit and you set a rhythm that has him panting above you, his fingers flexing in your hair.
“That’s it, nena,” he praises, his voice strained. “Just like that. So good for me, so fucking good—”
You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, and his control visibly wavers. His hips start to move, shallow thrusts that you encourage by relaxing further, letting him take what he needs.
“Can I—” he starts, then groans when you take him particularly deep. “Can I fuck your mouth? Please, I need—”
You pull off just long enough to gasp, “Yes, use me,” before taking him back in and the sound he makes is somewhere between a curse and a prayer.
His grip in your hair becomes purposeful now, holding you steady as he starts to thrust. It’s slow at first, careful but when you look up at him with watering eyes and moan around him, his restraint cracks further.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he pants, moving faster now, deeper. “Feel so good, so perfect, fuck—”
Tears are streaming down your face now, your jaw aching in the best way and you’ve never felt more powerful than you do in this moment; on your knees but completely in control of his pleasure, reducing him to desperate sounds and broken praise.
“Close,” he warns, his movements becoming erratic. “I’m so close, where—”
You double your efforts, sucking harder, taking him deeper, making your intentions clear.
“Fuck, fuck, fuckkk—” His words dissolve into a groan as he comes, spilling hot and thick down your throat. You swallow around him, working him through it until he’s shaking, until his hand in your hair goes gentle, almost reverent.
When you finally pull off, his eyes are glazed, his chest heaving and he looks thoroughly wrecked. You sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and the way he’s staring at you—like you’ve just given him religion—makes every second worth it.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes finally, reaching down to help you to your feet. Your knees protest the movement but then his mouth is on yours, kissing you deep and dirty, tasting himself on your tongue. “You’re incredible. That was…you’re—”
“Good?” you supply with a smile, your voice rough.
“Transcendent,” he corrects, pulling back to look at you properly. His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away the tears there with such tenderness it makes your chest ache. “But now we have a problem.”
“What’s that?”
His eyes darken again, heat already building anew despite what just happened. “I need to return the favor. Need to make you feel as good as you just made me feel. And then—” his hand slides down your body, cupping between your legs and even through your jeans the pressure makes you gasp, “I need to fuck you properly. Think you can handle that?”
Your breath catches at the promise in his voice. “What about your hair?”
He laughs, the sound bright and genuine, before kissing you again. “Fuck my hair. It can air dry. Right now, the only thing I care about is getting you out of these clothes and making you scream my name.”
And with the way he’s looking at you, the way his hands are already working at your button, you’re inclined to let him do exactly that.
“Lemme at least put some moisturizer in it.”
“Do it with my head between your legs ‘cause I’m not waiting.”
The words are barely out of his mouth before he’s moving, hands gripping your hips and lifting you onto the bathroom counter in one fluid motion before pulling up his chair and dropping onto it.
“Chris—”
“Reach for your products,” he interrupts, already working at the button of your jeans with practiced efficiency. “You wanted to do your hair routine? Fine but like this.”
Heat floods through you as he yanks your jeans down your legs, taking your underwear with them. The cool air of the bathroom hits your overheated skin, making you shiver but then his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart, resting them on the armrests of the chair and suddenly you can’t think about anything else.
“Chris, oh my god—” Your hand fumbles behind you for the moisturizer bottle on the counter, nearly knocking it over in your haste.
“That’s it,” he encourages, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh. “Get what you need but don’t you dare ask me to stop.”
You manage to grab the bottle, your hands shaking as you pump product into your palm but the moment you reach for his hair, the moment your fingers make contact with his damp curls, he leans forward and licks a stripe right through your center and you nearly drop the entire bottle.
“Fuck!” The word tears from you, your free hand immediately flying to grip the edge of the counter for stability.
“Keep going,” he murmurs against you, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. “Work it through my hair like you always do. Nice and slow. Thorough.”
“You can’t—I can’t—” Your protest dissolves into a moan as his tongue finds your clit, circling it with maddening precision.
“You can,” he counters, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in. “You’re good at multitasking, remember? All those lectures about proper technique?”
Your fingers thread through his curls, trembling as you try to work the product through like you normally would—sectioning, smoothing, scrunching to define—but it’s nearly impossible when his mouth is doing sinful things to you, when his tongue is alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has your thighs shaking.
“Baby, please—” You’re not sure what you’re begging for anymore. For him to stop so you can concentrate? For him to never stop? Both seem equally urgent.
“Please what, nena?” His words vibrate against you, and the sensation makes you gasp. “You wanted to finish the routine. So finish it.”
There’s a challenge in his voice, even muffled as it is, and something in you rises to meet it. Your hands move with more purpose now, working through another section of his hair, smoothing the product from root to tip, combing the defining brush through then scrunching to encourage his curl pattern; all while he’s eating you out like a man starving.
“That’s my girl,” he praises when you manage to complete a section and the words combined with a particularly wicked flick of his tongue has you crying out. “Doing so good for me. Keep going.”
Your head falls back against the mirror, your free hand fisting in his hair; less for styling purposes now and more to hold on, to ground yourself. He doesn’t seem to mind—if anything it spurs him on—his hands gripping your thighs harder, holding you open for him.
“Almost done,” you gasp out, your movements becoming more erratic as pleasure builds hot and insistent in your core. “Just need to—ay dio, right there—”
He hums in acknowledgment, focusing his attention exactly where you need it and your hands are shaking so badly now you can barely hold the bottle. You manage to pump out more product, manage to work it through the final section of his hair with movements that are more instinct than technique.
“There,” you breathe, dropping the bottle carelessly. “Done, I’m done—”
“Good,” he growls against you and then both his hands are on you, one sliding up to palm your breast while the other joins his mouth, fingers teasing your entrance before sliding inside. “Now you can stop thinking about my hair and focus on this. On me. On how good I’m making you feel.”
And god, he is. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes you see stars, while his tongue works your clit with relentless precision. The combination is overwhelming, devastating and you can feel yourself hurtling toward the edge embarrassingly fast.
“That’s it,” he encourages, feeling you clench around his fingers. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on my tongue, wanna taste you—”
His words, combined with the addition of another finger, the way he sucks your clit into his mouth, send you flying over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your back arching off the mirror, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, a curse, a benediction.
He works you through it, gentling his touch as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, anywhere he can reach. When you finally open your eyes, still panting, you find him looking up at you with the most self-satisfied smirk you’ve ever seen.
“How’s my hair look?” he asks and you can’t help but laugh, breathless and slightly hysterical.
“Like you just got fucked,” you manage, taking in his thoroughly mussed curls, some sections clearly more defined than others, the whole thing slightly chaotic. “But honestly? It works for you.”
“Yeah?” He rises from the chair, settling between your legs and you can see he’s already hard again, heavy and flushed against his stomach. “Well, it’s gonna look even worse in a few minutes.”
“Oh?” You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his length—after you wash it—and revel in the way his breath stutters. “And why’s that?”
“Because,” he says, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tastes like you, “I’m about to fuck you right here on this counter and I have a feeling you’re gonna pull it pretty hard.”
The promise in his words sends another wave of heat through you. “Bold of you to assume I’m a hair puller.”
“Nena,” he says, positioning himself at your entrance, the head of his cock teasing through your wetness, making you both gasp, “after what we just did? I know exactly what you are.”
And then he’s pushing inside, slow and steady and so perfectly filling that you do exactly what he predicted; your hands fly to his hair, gripping those carefully moisturized curls, and pull.
The sound he makes is absolutely worth ruining your styling work.
“Fuck,” he groans, his hips stuttering as he sinks deeper. “Do that again.”
You oblige, tugging at his hair as he bottoms out and his forehead drops to yours, his breathing ragged. “You feel so good,” he mutters, pulling back only to thrust in again, harder this time. “So fucking perfect around me.”
Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him deeper, faster. The counter is hard and cold against your ass but you barely notice, too focused on the delicious drag of him inside you, the way he’s hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.
“More,” you gasp, your nails scraping against his scalp and he responds immediately, his pace becoming punishing, desperate. One hand braces against the mirror beside your head, the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise and the slight pain only adds to the pleasure.
“This what you wanted?” he pants against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Wanted me to fuck you like this? Ruin you on this counter?”
“Yes,” you moan, your head falling back against the mirror with a dull thunk. “God, yes, Chris—”
His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sounds, his tongue sliding against yours in rhythm with his thrusts. It’s messy, desperate, perfect—all teeth and tongue and shared breath.
“Touch yourself,” he commands, pulling back just enough to watch your face. “Want to feel you come around my cock.”
Your hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit and the added stimulation combined with the angle of his thrusts has you trembling, teetering on the edge already.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice strained. “Can feel you getting tighter. Come for me, baby. Lemme feel it.”
A few more circles of your fingers, a few more perfectly angled thrusts and you’re shattering around him, crying out his name as pleasure whites out your vision. Your walls clench around him rhythmically and the sensation pulls him over the edge with you.
“Fuck, fuck—” His hips stutter, burying himself as deep as possible as he comes, spilling hot inside you. His face is buried in your neck and you can feel his lips forming words against your skin; a mixture of your name and curses and praise that makes your chest tight.
You stay like that for a long moment, both of you trying to catch your breath, hearts pounding in sync. Eventually, he lifts his head and the look on his face—sated and soft and a little awed—makes you smile.
“So,” you say, your voice rough and thoroughly used, “how’s the hair?”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours and reaches up to run his fingers through his curls. They spring back, perfectly defined despite—or maybe because of—your rough handling.
“Actually looks pretty good,” he admits, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. “Might need to incorporate this into the routine.”
“What, the sex or the multitasking?”
“Both,” he says with that devastating grin.“Definitely both.”
You shake your head, still smiling but when he leans in to kiss you again—soft and sweet this time, a contrast to everything that just happened—you melt into it, already looking forward to the next wash day.
synopsis: after watching chan’s sit down with john park, you make it your personal mission your boyfriend gets to see the stars he misses so much. it may not be in the way he suspects, but it’s heartwarming nonetheless.
pairing: bangchan x f!reader
genre: fluff
contains: reader calls chan “chris”, kissing, chan being loved and cared for and sweet :3
word count: 1.8k
now playing: i wish i was the moon - neko case
[a/n]: did i write this during my break at work? yes. did i reread literally any of it? HAHAHAH hell no :3 enjoy !!
“uh, random question.” the pause that follows isn’t long, but it stretches just long enough that it weighs heavy on your shoulders.
“do you sometimes miss seeing the star?”
chan’s voice is soft as it seeps from your computer speakers, but it still manages to punch into you like a truck.
you’d barely been holding in tears in the first place, this whole episode being too damn tragic for how calming it is to listen to, but now? after that single, simple question, you can’t quite hold it in anymore.
there had been talk of childhood, how chan and the kids haven’t gotten a break in god knows how long, how your boyfriend had been a trainee for eight years before debuting. hell, you’d gotten through him calling himself a horrible person for making the kids cry during their survival show- but this?? this hits a spot in your soul far deeper than anything has in a long time.
it takes you a minute to pull yourself together, to wipe away the tears and get your breathing to even out, but even once they’re gone the sadness still lingers.
after the video comes to a close—after your ribcage squeezes harsh around your heart at chan’s sweet laugh after muttering a small when will i get married?—you have to take a minute or two to just sit with yourself.
the thing at the top of your mind is how badly you want to hug chan when he comes home.
over the next week or so you find yourself looking outside at night more than you normally would—or really just for a different reason than before.
you used to look out to admire the city life—the cars crawling along the streets, the neon lights that flicker every now and then, the buildings that reach into the sky—but now you look for something else: the stars.
at first you think maybe chan had just be exaggerating a little bit in the video, that there were some littered across the sky, just not as much as there were back at his home in sydney.
four days in you realize he was being truthful. there’s nothing.
correction: they are definitely there, but they just aren’t visible. light pollution. cloudy skies. it all shrouds them from the human eye.
it’s disheartening, to say the least.
you’ll make do, though. you always do. and if you can’t force away light pollution to dissipate enough to see the night sky in all it’s glory, you best believe you’ll take it into your hands.
the next evening you go to three separate stores in hopes of getting your hands on what would serve to be your saving grace: glow in the dark stars.
you found a few packs at the previous stores, but they were all stupidly small and too pricy for said size. who knew that plastic stars were such a commodity these days?
it’s at the third store—a little shop tucked into a side street—that you find exactly what you need. the pack is modest, a little worn on the edges but otherwise fine. when you flip it over and see the little picture demonstrating how you could arrange them, you know its perfect.
you walk out with five packs. a little overboard? sure. do you care? absolutely not.
chan doesn't get home until late that night, long after you've already arranged the stars across your apartments ceiling in scattered constellations—some real, some completely made up.
you’ve never been super grateful for chan’s tendencies to overwork himself by staying late at the studio, but tonight you can’t help but thank him for it. the stars took a little longer to hang up than originally anticipated, and you would’ve been crushed (and just a tad bit embarrassed) if he’d walked in on you balancing haphazardly on a barstool, plastic stars in hand as you decorated rhe ceiling.
the trail starts right above the apartment's front door, a sparse scatter of luminous stars that dot the ceiling in ones and twos. as the path winds further down the hallway in intentional spirals, the stars began to multiply—three here, five there—growing denser with each step toward the bedroom. by the time the trial reaches the living room, small clusters had formed, like little galaxies emerging from the darkness.
the closer it got to the bedroom door, the thicker the constellations became, stars overlapping and crowding together until they formed an almost continuous river of light that pooled above the bed in a breathtaking canopy.
some of them even spilled from the ceiling down the corners of the walls, filling the room with the softest glow.
it’s ridiculous. childish, even. but you can’t find it in you to care, not when pride grows warm in your chest at how pretty the sight of them is.
you’re making yourself at home in bed when you hear the familiar sound of the front door opening, followed by the soft thud of chan's bag hitting the floor.
"baby?" his voice carries down the hallway, tired but warm. "you still up?"
you prop yourself up on your elbows as you call back a soft “in here.”
you hear his footsteps padding down the hallway, only making it a few feet before he stops. there's a pause, one long enough that you know he's finally noticed.
"what the..." his voice trails off, confusion laced in each syllable.
you can't help but grin as you listen to him move slowly through the apartment, following the trail you’d spent so long layong out. his footsteps are slower now, more deliberate, like he's trying to piece together a puzzle.
when he finally appears in the doorway of the bedroom, his expression is priceless.
his eyes are wide, mouth slightly parted as he takes in the layout of glowing stars above the bed.
you cant help but think he looks like a kid who's just walked into a surprise birthday party.
"did you- did you put stars on our ceiling?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
you sit up fully now, tucking your knees to your chest. a laugh pushes its way from your lips, finding the question obvious but also endearing. "sure did."
"but… why?" he steps further into the room, craning his neck to look up at the constellations you've created. the soft green glow catches in his dark eyes, making them shimmer.
you can’t decide what’s prettier, him or the stars.
you take a breath, suddenly feeling a little shy about the whole thing. "uh, remember that episode you did with john park? when you asked if he ever missed seeing the stars?"
chan's expression shifts immediately. recognition, then something softer. he nods slowly.
"i started looking for them after i watched that," you continue, fidgeting with the hem of chan’s your shirt. "every night for like- a week. but there's nothing out there, chris. the light pollution, the clouds... you can't see anything-"
his eyes haven't left your face, and you watch his throat bob as he swallows.
"i just- i guess i couldn't stop thinking about it. about how you've been working so hard for so long, how you barely get breaks, and how even something as simple as seeing stars got taken away from you. so..." you gesture weakly at the ceiling, cheeks feeling warm. "i thought maybe i could bring them to you instead."
the statement came out more as a question then… well, a statement.
the silence that follows feels impossibly heavy. chan just stands there, staring at you with an expression you can't quite read, and for a horrifying moment you think maybe you've overstepped somehow.
but then his face crumples into something that can only be labeled as completely and utter admiration.
"channie-" you start, pushing yourself up and off the bed with the smallest laugh, taking a step forward to wrap him in your arms.
he beats you to it.
chan crosses the room in three strides and pulls you into his arms so tightly you almost lose your breath. his face buries into your neck almost immediately, and you can feel him shaking slightly.
"you're ridiculous," he mumbles against your skin, voice thick. "you're so fucking ridiculous and i love you so much."
your hands come up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. "i love you too, baby."
he pulls back just enough to look at you, and god, the way he's looking at you—like you've hung the moon instead of some cheap plastic stars—makes your heart squeeze painfully in your chest.
"i can't believe you did this," he says, letting out a watery laugh. "i can't believe you listened to that stupid video and remembered and went out and bought- how many stores did you even go to?"
"three," you admit, just a tad bit sheepish.
"three," he repeats, shaking his head in disbelief. his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs stroking gently across your cheekbones. "you went to three stores to buy glow in the dark stars because i said i missed seeing the sky."
"well, when you put it like that—"
he kisses you before you can finish, soft and sweet and so full of emotion that it makes your chest ache for the nth time.
when he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours. "thank you," he whispers. "seriously. thank you."
you manage to grt in a "you're welcome," before he kisses you again, then once more for good measure.
finally, chan releases you in favor of looking back up at the stars—his stars.
he lies down on the bed, pulling you with him until you're tucked against his side, both of you staring up at the glowing ceiling.
"they're beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. "you're beautiful. this is-" his voice catches slightly. "i think this is the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me."
you burrow closer into his chest, letting your eyes trace the patterns above you. "you deserve nice things, chris. you deserve to see the stars."
his arm tightens around you, and for a long moment, neither of you says anything. you just lie there together in the soft green glow, wrapped up in each other while the weight of the day finally melts away.
"i don't think i'm ever going to be able to sleep without these now," chan admits quietly, a hint of humor creeping back into his voice.
you smile against his shoulder. "good thing i bought five packs then."
his laugh rumbles through his chest, warm and genuine and so utterly him that you can't help but smile wider.
"i really, really love you," he says again, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
Settling back against the welcoming sofa cushions with a contented sigh, Y/N wiggled her feet around in her fuzzy socks. There was something so innately comforting about dressing in the softest of pyjamas after having a long, long shower. She had spent almost an hour in there, skin flushed, head nearly spinning from the steam, but it was something she couldn't imagine living without … the repetitive motion of taking care of her body as the boiling water caressed her skin in an endless embrace was something that always managed to calm her mind. And afterwards, slathering her smooth skin in a buttery moisturiser with a warm, sweet scent, before draping weightless garments over her frame - it was like being wrapped in a large cloud, and one that she could never get enough of.
She had only been on the sofa for a few seconds when Chris collided with her; Y/N's breath was knocked out of her as her husband's limbs suddenly tangled their way around her, her body toppling over onto its side. She started to giggle when his fingers scrabbled at her sides, and she struggled under him before pushing her way up again, Chris's whines buzzing against her skin.
“Missed you,” Chris huffed, dropping his face into the crook of his wife's neck.
“I was only taking a shower,” Y/N laughed under her breath. She adjusted her position, stretching her legs out in front of her as Chris curled up further into her.
He sniffled. “Yeah, an hour long one - without me.”
“Only because I don't want you to pass out. Last time you tried to stay, you nearly died from the heat.”
“And I'd have died happily if it meant I was with you.”
“I wouldn't have been very happy though. I need you alive and healthy at all times … and if that means you can't shower with me for more than half an hour max because the hot water is too much, then so be it.”
Chris grumbled. “Just say you hate me.”
Giggling, Y/N squeezed the muscular curves of his arm. “You're so dramatic. Can't even shower in peace.”
At that, Chris's face broke into a wide grin. He turned a little and pressed a slow kiss to the soft grain of her neck; he inhaled deeply, the sound loud as he rubbed his nose against her collarbone. “Mmm … you smell good.”
Before Y/N could answer, Chris had moved. His head dropped into her lap, his fingers tugging at the hem of her stretchy pyjama top, and a moment later his head darted underneath, his breath hot on her stomach.
“Christopher … “ Y/N yelped, shivering as the curls of his hair tickled her heated skin. She stifled a breathy sound as Chris's hands cupped the sides of her waist, his thumbs caressing the sensitive skin there while his lips dragged their way in loops over her stomach. Each kiss felt like a patch of tingles had been left in their wake as Chris moved further up, his heavy breaths caressing the underside of Y/N's chest.
“Soft … “ Chris hummed against her skin. Another kiss found its way between her breasts, and Y/N's breath hitched, her face growing hotter than it had been just moments ago. “Fuck … you smell so good … wanna eat you - “
“Chris … baby I just showered,” Y/N protested weakly as Chris's tongue swept its way across her ribs. She let out a shaky laugh as his teeth followed, grazing the same spot. “You're gonna lick all my lotion off.”
Chris's chuckles vibrated against the softness of her stomach. “Too bad. You smell good and you taste good, so … “
Lower lip catching between her teeth as she tried to suppress a growing smile, Y/N sank further back into the cushions. Chris's head continued to roam beneath her t-shirt, and after biting her particularly hard, licking away the sweet sting in a way that Y/N knew would leave more than just a few marks, he finally retreated. His cheeks were as pink as his ears, and his eyes sparkled with a devilish glint from behind the dishevelled hair that fell in charming swoops over his forehead. The neckline of his top had stretched to one side, exposing the sharp angle of his collarbone as he leaned forward and eagerly clamped his lips over his wife, the grin on his lips melting into hers.
Just as fast as the playfulness had come over him, it soon slipped away, leaving him softer, the slopes of his eyes curving when he pulled away from this kiss. Chris's nose bumped Y/N's softly as he smiled happily at her, and a second later he turned before laying his head down against her thighs, his back looming in front of her in all of its broad glory.
All Y/N could do was laugh under her breath. She was used to him being like this, despite still getting caught off guard every time he robbed her of her breath. She leaned down and planted a tender kiss on his temple, her hand sliding up his arm and squeezing his shoulder.
“Had enough?” She teased, sliding her fingers down his back.
Chris hummed in response as he curled his arms around her thighs, hugging them like pillows. His lips grazed over her knees, leaving more kisses as though he could never, ever give her enough.
Lips still curved up at the corners in a fond smile, Y/N reached for the blanket she had wanted to reach for before her husband jumped onto her. She shook it out and draped it over them both now, Chris immediately relaxing and fusing into her body with the extra comfort. He squeezed her thighs and wiggled a little against her in contentment, just as Y/N slipped her hands under the blanket, reaching for his back again.
She trailed her fingers down his spine before slipping them under his oversized t-shirt. Her nails slid across his skin in slow strokes, scratching their way up and down from the taut mounds of his trapezius muscles, to the waistband of his shorts that hung low, exposing the twin valleys on either side of him that Y/N so loved. She felt Chris's breathing growing more languid with each stroke down the length of him, and he nuzzled in closer to her, cheek smushed against her plush thigh as his hooded gaze locked onto the TV in front of them both.
For a while, neither of them spoke. They didn't need to - Chris and Y/N stayed tangled up in each other, their breathing in sync. Y/N's hand was still rubbing and scratching along the silky expanse of her husband's skin, eliciting tiny hums and groans from him every now and then; he didn't want her to stop, just as much as she was addicted to the feel of him. She could feel raised tracks of his skin beneath her fingers now from how many times she had gone over the same area - she knew if she lifted up the blanket, she would find pretty pink lines decorating the entire surface of Chris's back. Just as he loved seeing the purple blossoms he left on her with his mouth, she adored the sight of the art she could create on him with her fingers.
Their own way of saying that the other belonged to them.
“Y/N … ?” Chris hummed after a long while, his voice reverberating his chest.
Y/N peered down at him, fingers dancing along his temple. “Hmm?”
“Are … are you happy?”
Y/N blinked. “Happy?”
“Yeah. Like … in general. With us. Am I an okay husband? I guess … I … are you happy being with me?”
His voice was small at that moment, and Y/N felt her heart flutter. He was still watching the TV, and she was still caressing his skin, her fingers kissing the moles scattered across him.
“Do I look unhappy?” Y/N asked softly.
Gulping, Chris turned a little. His eyes landed on hers, and despite whatever thoughts he had been riddling himself with, he couldn't help but smile.
Her face was glowing. He couldn't deny that no matter how much he tried to, sometimes.
“No,” Chris whispered. “You look … “
“Happy,” Y/N finished, dropping her head to kiss his shoulder. “I'm happy, Chris. I don't think I knew what true happiness felt like before you. Being with you … you're my other half. I'm always going to be my happiest at your side.”
Eyes watering, Chris turned his face back to the TV. His hand squeezed her knee, and Y/N brushed another kiss against his skin.
“Are you happy?” Y/N hummed.
Chris sniffled. “The happiest.”
Her laughter a soft puff of air, Y/N gently shifted position. She pushed her husband up for a moment before laying across the sofa seats, her body cushioned by the back of it as she reached for him again. Chris settled back down, this time with his half-bare back pressed against her chest, his t-shirt still ridden up his skin as she tucked herself and the blanket around him. Y/N's arms locked around the man's torso, her fingers caressing his hard stomach beneath his top as she hoisted a leg over his.
“Stop thinking,” Y/N murmured against the top of his head.
Chris's body shook with silent amusement. “You know me too well.”
“I do. Listen to me,” she kissed his neck. “Just throw all those thoughts out. Be empty headed.”
“Mmm … not too far fetched at this rate,” Chris yawned, melting further into his wife's comforting hold. “You make me so … “
He trailed off and Y/N giggled into his skin. “So what?”
“Nothing,” Chris cleared his throat. “Hey look … you like this show.”
“I do. So what?” Y/N squeezed him.
“Y/N … “ Chris whined, his hand coming up to cover his face. “Stop trying to kill me.”
“You wouldn't die happy? Because you'd technically still be with me?” Y/N joked, toying with his words from earlier.
Chris let out a garbled sound. It only made Y/N laugh more, and she peppered him with more bubbly kisses.
“God … I love when you get like this,” she said. “My shy baby.”
“‘M … yours … “ Chris mumbled, ears steaming.
“Huh? Didn't hear you,” Y/N teased.
Chris sighed. “I'm yours. Yours, yours, yours.”
“Mine,” Y/N giggled. “Look at you … was that really you tryna rip my skin off with your teeth earlier?”
Chris was already in bed when Y/N entered the room. Or rather, he was on top of it, his sturdy torso nestled amongst the soft duvet as he scrolled lazily through his phone. He was giggling to himself in a way that made his broad shoulders shake lightly, the glorious stretch of his smooth skin glistening golden under the dim lamplight. His hair fell into his eyes in frazzled coils and he ruffled a hand through it, pushing it away before resting his chin on his forearm. Head tilting a little to the side, Chris yawned, legs rustling amongst the sheets as a sleepy, content expression crossed his face.
Y/N bit her lip as an overwhelming smile spread its way across her face. There was something so comforting yet heart wrenching about seeing her husband in his own little world. He looked adorable with his crinkling eyes and feet kicking around at the end of the bed when he came across something that amused him.
Quietly stripping her own clothes off with Chris still completely unaware of her presence, Y/N set the garments aside before padding over to the bed. The end of the mattress dipped a touch as she crawled onto it, and Chris turned his head slightly just as she landed on top of him with a giggle, her entire body draped over his and her face flat in her hair.
Chris burst into hushed chuckles. “Hello to you too. Didn't even know you were here.”
Y/N sighed happily as she curved her arms around her husband's frame. “I know … too busy scrolling.”
She nuzzled her face into the crook of Chris's neck. He was warm, so much warmer than she had anticipated, and Y/N shivered upon feeling his rolling heat seep into her skin. She let out a shuddery breath as she buried her face deeper into the small dip between his neck and shoulder; the scent of him surrounded her in a musky, sweet cloud, almost as if tiny molecules of his fragrance and skin were locking millions of arms around her body, the very essence of him clinging to her being.
And she loved every single bit of it.
“Am I too heavy?” Y/N murmured, kissing the sharp curve of his shoulder. She lifted her hips a little, unloading some of her weight; but Chris's legs were quick to tangle around hers like veins, ensnaring her into the curve of his body.
“Never,” Chris said. “You're perfect.”
Her smile was satisfied against his skin. She turned her face so her cheek rested against the nape of his neck, and one of her hands started tracing her way down his side. She smoothed over the soft dips of his lats, marvelling at the way his firm muscle rippled with the smallest of movements. She adored the feel of him - he was strong, yet so soft at the same time, and every inch of him moulded to her frame as if he was made just for her. Her fingers continued to dance along the pepper of moles along the expanse of his silky skin, and Chris hummed at the feeling, his fingers loosening around his phone.
“You're so warm,” Y/N whispered, kissing just below his ear. “And so soft. You're always so soft. And comfy. And you smell so good … “
Chris's body vibrated underneath her skin as he laughed silently. He reached an arm out without looking, intending to gently pat her head. But the palm of his hand collided with Y/N's face instead, her nose and her lips and her flushed cheeks soft against him, and laughter broke out of her at the impact. Chris chuckled alongside her just as he curled her fingers around his wrist and kissed his fingers.
“Sorry baby,” Chris slurred, fatigue creeping up on him. He moved his hand again, finding his wife's cheek, and he gently caressed her warmth before his fingers drifted to her hair, his fingers brushing lightly the way he had wanted to in the beginning.
Another smile on her face, Y/N lifted her head from Chris's shoulder and gently cupped his jaw. “Kiss,” she hummed, and Chris let out a happy sound before he turned his face to the side where her head was just an inch away.
Y/N's hands swept over the curves of Chris's back as he turned his body a fraction so he could kiss her better. He was too tired to move again; one of his arms was thrown lazily above his head, fingers curled into his pillow, his other fingers like individual furnaces against the back of Y/N's neck as he drew her closer to him. His lips were sealed over hers in a long, languid kiss, and the heated tickle of his breath skimmed her cheek as he exhaled, the very tip of his tongue tracing the seam of Y/N's lower lip. She hummed under her breath and ran the flat of her hand up his waist, the slope of his spine, and up to his head where she sank her fingers into his silky curls, gripping and tugging at them ever so slightly. Chris's groan was low in his throat, spilling into Y/N's mouth, and she shivered, pressing the heated skin of her chest further into his back.
When she pulled away, Chris's lips were rosier and they curved up into a sleepy smile. He leaned forward against to brush a kiss to her nose, and then her cheeks, and then her forehead, before Y/N's head took up residence on the upper portion of his back once more.
“You're so clingy today,” Chris whispered, reaching over her head for his hand. He laced their fingers together before bringing them down to the sheets, tangled together on his pillow. “I love it when you're like this. My little koala.”
Y/N giggled. She grazed a series of lingering kisses along the planes of his shoulders, and then up his neck. “You're a tree.”
He squeezed her fingers as he chuckled into the sheets. “A tree? Mmm … you telling me to work out more? I don't think trees are comfy.”
“No, not like that,” Y/N whined. “You're comfy. Very comfy. You're only a tree because you called me a koala and koalas love hugging trees.”
“Mm. Aight. If you say so.”
“I do say so,” Y/N breathed. Her fingers had begun trailing down his hips now, down to the sharp grooves that tucked inwards below his abdominal muscles. She traced the ridges with a featherlight touch, and Chris's breath hitched, his body tensing below hers as his skin prickled with goosebumps.
“Baby … “ Chris swallowed thickly. “You're gonna kill me.”
Her fingers danced along the soft dimples at the very bottom of his back in response. The man groaned again, the end breaking off into a smitten puff of laughter, and he shifted just a little, tightening his legs around hers.
“My pretty boy,” Y/N kissed into his skin. The constant heat emanating from her husband was making her incredibly drowsy; her eyes began to droop a little, and she dragged her hands back up the sides of his thighs, using the tips of her fingernails to softly scratch against his skin as she did so. Her hands settled at his middle and she slid them beneath him, tucking her arms underneath his body as she hugged him tight.
“Now you really are a koala,” Chris commented. “Clinging to her branch.”
She responded by dragging her hands up; her fingers grazed the underside of his pecs, and then the very peaks of them, making the entire man jerk at the sensation.
“Fuck,” Chris huffed into the duvet. “Baby … you're the biggest tease ever, you know that?”
Y/N burst into quiet giggles against his neck. Her hands retreated and she settled them neatly just over his heart, the steady thud thud thud pressing against her fingers.
“Don't wanna move,” Y/N mumbled. “Wanna stay here forever.”
Chris smiled to himself. “Then stay.”
She hummed sleepily. Y/N shifted so her body was completely curled around his, tucked into his back in a bubble of safety and unmistakable peace.
“Love you,” she yawned, letting her eyes fall shut.
Chris was about to reply when he felt her arms loosen just a touch. He peered over his shoulder; the shadow of her eyelashes kissed her skin and her lips formed a soft pout as her cheek squished up against his back. She was well and truly fast asleep, chest rising and falling like a weighted blanket against him, and the man's face almost melted with softness.
He placed his hand over hers as he dragged his pillow gently beneath his face so as not to jostle her. He turned one more time and planted a warm kiss to the bridge of her nose, his voice the faintest whisper in the quiet room.
